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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25585288">The Sacrifice of Stanford Pines</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleoptimistme/pseuds/littleoptimistme'>littleoptimistme</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AToTS au, AU, Alternate Universe, Brother roadtrip, Brotherly Love, But he do die tho, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fiddleford deserves the world, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Ford is not, Gangsters, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IS JUST RICO, Mullet Stan Pines, Mystery Trio, Other, Paranoid Ford Pines, Possession, Protective Stan Pines, Recovering Fiddleford H. McGucket, Roadtrip, Stan Pines is a Good Brother, Stangst, Stan’s life of crime, Young Ford Pines, Young Stan Pines, Young Stan Twins, bill is incredibly creepy it just sort of turned out that way, blood tw, but were not making it easy on them lol, dont worry we’re gonna help ford learn to be a good person, ford doesn’t send the postcard, ford is kind of awful for awhile, injury tw, kind of a fix it tbh, more violence than the show, mullet stan, poor boys, this is all me just trying to fix their poor awful relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:21:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>50,969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25585288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleoptimistme/pseuds/littleoptimistme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of sending Stan a postcard, Ford leaves Gravity Falls to find his brother. But to his shock, Stan is not nearly as willing to help as Ford thought. Everything goes south quickly.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ford Pines &amp; Stan Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>505</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. In Which Both the Post Service and Vacuums Suck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So excited for this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ford looked down at the postcard. Its edges were softer than when he first purchased it from the gas station down the road, and something smudged his handwriting, maybe the wet hands of an attendant, maybe the melting snow on a glove, so that it now read <em>Please com<b>eeee</b></em>. Stamped in bright red ink over the stamp, it also read <em>Return To Sender.</em></p><p>Ford cursed and pocketed the postcard. He knocked the snow off his boots against the mailbox pole and sank back into the shack, keeping in the steps he’d taken before. Inside the shack, it was dark. The lightbulb blew out at some point and time, and Ford hadn’t noticed until now. The last time he went outside was more than a week ago when he made the trek to the gas station. Today it took several seconds of squinting and blinking before he could even see properly outside. The snow reflected the light and it was so bright and clean and calm outside. The entire world was unaware of the disaster inside the shack.</p><p>Ford did not want to risk going out for too long. He couldn’t risk doing <em>anything </em>but sitting in this house all alone reading his journals over and over again, keeping the doors locked and the windows shut. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by his movement and the scuttling of some animals. Now, Ford didn’t even have the journals to keep him occupied. Sitting on top of a pile of diagrams, several textbooks, and a crumb-covered plate on what should have been a kitchen table, the first journal, the last to be hidden, taunted him. It told him how happy it was to still be with him, and how important it was to exist, and how nothing else, nothing at all, mattered quite as much as what Stanford Pines had written inside its scuffed edges.</p><p>Ford tucked the postcard into the back of the journal and scrubbed his hands over his face. His body ached and his eyes stung and his chin was scratchy. Sometimes when he sat too still, he’d see things, impossible things, floating around the edges of his vision, or he’d hear laughter from just behind him. Ford knew it was because he was now pushing his eighty-third hour since he’d slept. Or something like that. But the fact that it <em>could be </em>the demon he’d allowed into his head wasn’t helping his terror. He was going to push sleeping off until he could not physically do so any longer. It was safer this way. People didn’t talk about how nauseating staying awake for this long could make a person. He hadn’t eaten in… gosh, he didn’t remember unless you count coffee. Everything felt hazy and out of focus like his eyes watched an old family film instead of the space in front of him. He was stuck in slow motion while everything glitched past.</p><p>Ford screwed his eyes shut and forced them to open again. The trip outside, brief as it was, was enough to wake him up and see just how stuffy it was inside. Journal clasped to his chest, Ford walked out again and propped himself up on the porch steps. He hadn’t bothered to get any furniture for the shack that was not exactly necessary, so he found himself more and more often sitting on the floor. Nothing had mattered but the work, absolutely nothing. Fiddleford used to complain about this incessantly. ‘You need to sleep, Ford’ ‘this isn’t healthy, Ford’ ‘when is the last time you went outside, Ford?’ All these sickeningly sweet gestures and all just to slow him down. He was a grown man, and he would stop when the work was finished. That was what great men did. Course, now Ford was alone and there were no distractions and it was just his horrible, horrible luck that he could not continue with the work. He’d sometimes think he could hear Fiddleford typing in the other room, or humming to himself while he made tea. He wasn’t ever there when Ford turned to look.</p><p>The thoughts brought a dull pang to Ford's head, and he took the postcard out again. Sending it was a last-ditch effort. But, of course, his mother wouldn’t have an accurate address. According to her, he moved around a lot and this one was a few years old. Ford didn’t know what that meant really. But surely, if he tried, he could find him. In fact… a thought struck Ford suddenly, a memory buried deep in the places he did not often contemplate. “That could work,” he murmured. “Yes, yes, that would work!” With renewed excitement, Ford stumbled back inside, past the messes on the floor, past the kitchen table, to a bookshelf he’d locked tight, through an elevator behind it, and into the gullet of a lab he’d created for himself. It was stuffy down here, and cold, the smell of wet metal, ozone, hung pugnant in the air. Buzzing fluorescent lights that flickered during snowstorms lit the room.</p><p>He spoke out loud. “I’d just have to find it!” The next hour was a flurry of activity. Ford dumped out boxes and boxes of old projects. The portal loomed behind him, a great beacon of terror in its gleaming perfection. Ford avoided looking at it.</p><p>Finally, Ford lifted up a rectangular device, a retrofitted tv remote/walkie-talkie they’d gotten for their 12th birthday. He’d put a tiny blue screen on the front, and wires throughout. His fingers shook as he booted it up and connected it to the large computers Fiddleford had put together and used to calibrate the portal. For the last few weeks, they’d hung lifeless, two dark screens dull like a corpse’s eyes. “C’mon, c’mon…”</p><p>The little screen flickered, died, and then came to life again with a whirl of an internal fan. Ford grinned, and the bigger screen glowed. Ford created the device after being left behind at an amusement park at age 13. Of course, it worked, he was Stanford Pines, after all. Given the situation, Ford probably shouldn’t have been as proud of his thirteen-year-old self as he was, but that was neither here nor there. The computer screen showed a pixelated green map of the world. A whirling thinker at the bottom bounced around as it struggled to latch on.</p><p>Ford smacked the walkie-talkie.</p><p>The map zoomed in, closer into America, then down to the south, and finally, it centered on New Mexico and a blinking green dot.</p><p>“There you are,” Ford whispered. His stomach lurched with the sudden realization that he no longer had any obstacle to doing what needed to be done. There were no other options. He did not have any friends. He’d never bothered to make any besides Fiddleford, and Fiddleford was gone. His parents would hardly be of help, and his littlest brother was what, twelve, thirteen? The people in this town were complete idiots. No, this was the only option. He could not trust anyone else. The work was too important.</p><p>Ford found himself with his head buried in the crook of his elbow, eyes drooping shut. It would be easier to stay this way forever, let himself melt into the bench; the cool dirt and the stench of ozone could cover him whole. He was so tired<em>; </em>tired of being scared and tired of being by himself. What had he done wrong that this was the situation he ended up in?</p><p>Ford forced himself to get to his feet. He couldn’t risk falling asleep near the portal and he wasn’t good at staying still for very long anyhow. He’d already wasted enough time. The little green dot glowed on the screen, casting his hands in a sickly light. “Alright, Stanley,” he said to the dot. “Sit tight. I’m getting a plane ticket.”</p><hr/><p>Stanley slammed the motel door shut and scrambled for the lock. It clicked in place and he breathed hard, back against the door. He should be safe here. There was no reason to panic. He hadn’t seen anyone trailing him in days, and this place was good enough for tonight. Even so, Stanley doubted he’d sleep deeply.</p><p>The motel room smelled like cigarette smoke, and the popcorn ceiling was stained a sickly, dull yellow. He took a moment to close the fabric blinds and calm his heart. The room was loads better than his car, which had been hosting his bed and breakfast for several days now, and Stanley appraised the space with satisfaction. He dropped his bag off his shoulder and flopped onto a creaky bed that sagged beneath him. He needed a shower and he needed to brush his teeth and he needed a nap, none of which he’d been able to do for four days now. Every time he’d consider stopping, the gleaming of his current enemy’s teeth flashed in hi mind’s eye. He could feel the man’s massive hands wrapped around his throat and smell the sweat in the hot, dry room. It dampened any need to take a break. So Stan drove until he got through the border and then a good distance past that. </p><p>He couldn’t rest yet. Before he showered, he needed to get rid of some things. Grunting, Stan sat up and fished his wallet out of his pocket. Inside, his driver’s license said his name was Steven Oakley, and that he was from Redlands, California. He bent the card in half until it broke with a <em> snap, </em>and then broke it again, and then again. The little pieces of plastic in his palm, Stan unzipped his bag and took out a plastic bag of other pages. He walked to the bathroom and flushed the plastic bits down the drain, along with a fake social security card, a fake passport, and all the business papers he’d forged to pretend he was a legitimate business owner. He ripped it all up, and it swirled down the drain.</p><p>Stan had stood here more times than he could count. It used to make him want to die every time he had to concede that he’d screwed up again and needed to completely start over, but each time it got easier. It had been years now, and the only thing he really felt was irritation and a dull sense of inevitability. It was best to start over somewhere very far away from Mexico this time. Maybe he’d go north. Montana was probably nice this time of year. Cold, but that was fine. He had a storage unit he’d swung by on his way here, and his backup papers and entirely new licenses were in the bag on the floor. He could leave and never look at a cactus again. </p><p>Stan jumped into the shower. It felt nice to be clean. After the shower, he cleaned the cut he’d gotten on his shoulder during his escape. It was currently bandaged with seven bandaids, though it really needed an actual bandage, not whatever he happened to find in his car. He was bruised and sore and sunburnt, and it hadn’t really occurred to him just how horrible he felt until he was clean. Looking in the mirror shirtless, he now knew he looked just as bad as he felt. His eyes were sunken, his skin a grayish color. Why did he look so old? He wasn’t old yet.</p><p>Also, he needed a haircut. When he finished, Stan changed into the only clean clothes he had left, his mind buzzing with pleasant exhaustion and the little bit of Advil he had left, and collapsed onto the bed, intending to sleep. In fact, he might have slept. It was difficult to tell. He didn’t dream. His hand lay on his gun, tucked beneath his pillow and he turned the tv on to fill the quiet.</p><p>He woke to a polite knocking and his eyes flew open.</p><p>He lay totally still, hand under the pillow slowly tightening around the weapon. The evening light slipped in between the blinds.</p><p>
  <em> No, no, no. </em>
</p><p>The tv was running one of those weirdly long ads, not unlike one of Stan’s from a few years back. (Don’t you wish you had a <em> sucky vacuum?? </em>)</p><p>Was there a way out of here? No. Just the front door. He’d have to shoot his way through and make a run for it. The knocking continued, more insistent now. (Only $45.99! Cha-Ching! Call now and get a TEN DOLLAR discount!!)</p><p>Soundless, Stan pulled his legs to the side of the bed, grabbed his bag, and slipped his shoes on. He eased to his feet and pressed his back against the wall next to the window, about to move a blind with his finger. </p><p>A voice froze Stan solid.</p><p>“I know you’re in there.”</p><p>The air was suddenly really hard to get into his lungs. It couldn’t possibly be. He <em>knew </em>that voice better than anyone. He hadn’t heard it in twelve years, but it didn’t make a difference. There was no conceivable way <em>that voice </em>was outside his door. Stan flicked aside one of the blinds and stared.</p><p>“It’s me, Stanley,” said the voice.</p><p>And it was.</p><p>He dropped his bag, nearly knocking over the bedside lamp, in a fumble for the door. One lock, second lock. He threw it open and his jaw fell.</p><p>Stanford stood at his doorstep, fiddling nervously with a metal device. The differences between Stan’s memories and the man before him were stark, almost painful. His hair was longer and barely brushed, his face thinner than it used to be, and his clothes, though still distressingly academic, were wrinkled and unkempt. He only wore one sock and he had on a great tan overcoat despite the heat of the setting New Mexico sun.</p><p>“Hello, Stanley, can I come in?”</p><p>Stan’s knuckles were white on the door, his mind completely blank.</p><p>Ford cocked his head. “Is that… a no?”</p><p>Stan blinked. “No! No, not a- uh, what? <em> Ford </em>?”</p><p>“Yes, that’s me.”</p><p>“I…” Whatever he wanted to say, it didn’t quite survive the trek from his brain to his tongue. Instead, Stan stepped back so Ford could come inside.</p><p>Ford did so. He moved with that same calculated hesitancy of their childhood. Every movement was being accounted for. It was really him.</p><p>(Our vacuum sucks literally SO MUCH!) said the tv.</p><p>Stanley had no idea what to say, but the excitement/terror of having <em> Stanford </em>in his room suddenly loosened his tongue more than anything else possibly could have. He moved into a flurry of activity. “Here, you can sit there. Are you hungry? wait, I don’t really have anything to eat, maybe a granola bar. Do you like granola bars? Or there’s Pepsi in the car, I think?”</p><p>Ford stared at him, eyes wide, not having taken the seat. “Um...”</p><p>“Sorry.” Stan cleared his throat. “That was weird. You don’t need food. Why am I trying to feed you? I’m just… uhh... How did you find me?”</p><p>Ford waved the question away. “Oh, I planted a chip in your hand when we were kids. I just had to find the old locator” He lifted the device in his hand. “and there you were, a little ping on the map.”</p><p>If you’d asked Stan what he thought Ford was going to say, there was no way in a million years <em>that </em>would have crossed his mind.</p><p>“Oh. A… little ping.”</p><p>He looked at his hands, flipped them over, and Ford caught on. He took Stan’s right hand and turned it palm up, pointing at a tiny white scar in the meaty part of his palm which honestly Stan hadn’t noticed before. He rubbed it, but couldn’t feel anything unusual.</p><p>“You… bugged me?”</p><p>“Hardly. It’s a very sophisticated bit of technology. Hardly a <em>  bug. </em>But, that reminds me...” Ford slipped the locator into the pocket of this trench coat and pulled out a little flashlight. Before Stan could step back, Ford flashed the thing into his eyes, peering into his eyes intently. He nodded and his shoulders relaxed a bit. “Good. It would have been unlikely, but no one is safe, really.”</p><p>Stan swatted him away. “What are you doing? What’s going on? What are you doing here?”</p><p>Ford put away the flashlight and took a deep breath. “Well, the thing is, you’re going to have to trust me because what I’m about to tell you isn’t going to make sense. It’ll seem impossible, but I <em> swear </em>I’m telling you the truth, and I wouldn’t do this unless it was really import… important...” He went pale, eyes glazed, and he stumbled, enough that Stan caught him by the elbow.</p><p>A sick feeling was starting to pool in Stan’s gut, any happiness at just <em>seeing </em>Ford again squashed by the certainty something was horribly wrong. Ford would not be here unless he had to be. That was just the truth. It hurt, but Stan couldn’t afford to dwell on it right now. “Ford?”</p><p>“I’m fine. Just got dizzy for a moment. I haven’t slept in…” Ford rubbed an eye, pushing up his glasses. “A… while?”</p><p>Now that he said it, it was obvious. He looked awful. Like, on-the-run-from-the-Cartel awful, which was suitable and justified in Stan’s case, but definitely not for Ford.</p><p>“Are you in trouble?” Stan eased him into sitting on the bed.</p><p>Ford snorted. “Not just me…” That didn’t make sense. He looked up at Stan, for the first time actually meeting his eyes (other than to inspect Stan’s eyes) and Stan knew for certain Ford was terrified. It was undeniable. It was carved inside him fiercely, and he’d always been an open book to Stan anyhow.</p><p>Stan cursed and crouched so they were at the same level. “Ford, you’ve got to tell me right now, okay? Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”</p><p>Ford nodded and opened his mouth to respond, but it turned into a massive yawn, and Stan resisted the urge to snap at him.</p><p>“Are you in immediate danger? Ford, pay attention.”</p><p>Ford shook his head, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he dropped sideways, nearly off the bed. Catching him, Stan laid his brother back onto the bed and stared, uncertain.</p><p>Ford breathed deeply.</p><p>Asleep.</p><p>Seriously?</p><p>Stan stepped back, and then forward, and back again. He took Ford’s glasses off and laid them on the table, then moved them to the nightstand. He backed up until his legs hit the tightly upholstered chair next to the bed, eyes never leaving Ford, and promptly sat.</p><p>“What is <em>happening? </em>” he whispered.</p><p>No one answered.</p><p>(“Please buy our vacuums,” said the tv, “we know how messy you are!”)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. In Which a Book Takes a Bath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two chapters in 2 days? What is this witchcraft? Got to ride the wave of motivation while I can, folks ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ford woke with a start, his hand bent oddly beneath him and his fingers asleep. The room was lit by the soft morning, the blue light from the window fussy and absurdly beautiful without his glasses to solidify it. The AC unit rattled and the beads hanging from the fan above him clicked against the metal base with every revolution. The last few days came rushing back with a sick, sluggish weight, but Ford still felt better than he had the night before. When was the last time he had an entire night’s sleep? He almost closed his eyes again before it occurred to him that he was alone.</p><p>Stanley. He found Stanley. Where did he go? And why was Ford asleep anyhow? He tried to remember just what he’d said last night, but it was a jumble of flashing images. He must have passed out. Figures.</p><p>He fumbled for the nightstand, panic beginning to build beneath his skin. Did Stanley leave him behind? As he slipped his glasses on, the bathroom door creaked, and Stanley walked out in the same clothes he’d been in yesterday, a stained t-shirt and jeans, looking just as weathered and rough as he did before. Ford relaxed. There was a blanket on the armchair next to the bed. Had he slept there all night?</p><p>Stanely brightened when he saw Ford, and he threw him something, too quickly for Ford to catch. It knocked him in the chest. “Here,” Stanley said. “Breakfast.”</p><p>The wrapper crinkled in Ford’s hands. ‘Breakfast’ was a vending machine pastry. <em> Rebecca’s Crying Breakfast Friends! </em>Said the pastry's wrapper. Just by looking at him, Ford could have guessed this was a typical meal for Stanley. Ford tore into it. It was absolutely the best thing he’d eaten in forever. His stomach ached with sharp spikes of hunger. Why did he go so long without food again?</p><p>Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, content to eat their respective breakfasts and pretend this was perfectly normal; as if the world wasn’t on the line, and they often spent their mornings in happy silence together. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? </p><p>“You gonna explain what’s going on here?” Stanley crushed the wrapper in his fist and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. His voice was low, level, and cautious, deeper by far than it was when they were seventeen.</p><p>Ford nodded. He took the last bite. “Keep an open mind.”</p><p>“Look, I’ve been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”</p><p>Ford hummed. He’d been planning this conversation for several days now. He knew Stan was going to need proof. His coat, which he did not remember taking off, was on the floor next to the bed, and Ford rooted through the pockets for the journal, a series of photos, and graphs. “I suppose I’ll start here. For the last few years, I’ve been living in a town in Oregon called Gravity Falls.” He spread the photos out on the bed between them, and Stan leaned forward, brow knitted. When he said nothing, Ford continued. “It’s a hot spot for… odd things. Weird creatures, phenomena, etc.. And while I was there, I used my research to build… this.” He pointed at a photo of the portal. In the photo, Fiddleford was grinning at the base of the machine, covered in grease and dirt, and the portal was nearly finished. Ford had been so excited when he took this photo. It would be the sort of thing they put in textbooks someday, he imagined.</p><p>Stanley accepted the photo and cocked his head. “Okay,” he grunted. “Fine. Why? What’s it do?”</p><p><em> Why </em>was more complicated than <em>what </em> and Ford would rather avoid why altogether if possible. “It’s a trans-universal gateway, a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe. But it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction. So I had to shut it down.” He pointed at the remaining journal. “I hid my journals, which explained how to operate it. There’s only one journal left. This one. You are the <em> only </em>person I can trust to take it.” Ford forced himself to hand over the journal and tried to ignore his shaking fingers. The plan was always to let go of his research, but now that he was doing it, it made him feel nauseous.</p><p>Stan was looking more and more disgruntled. With a frown, he pulled away from Ford and flicked through the book, but Ford kept right on.</p><p>“I have something to ask of you: you remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?”</p><p>Stan blinked, he nodded with a small smile. Good, he remembered. That was what Ford needed. </p><p>“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can. To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”</p><p>The rest of the conversation should have gone like this: “Oh wow, this sounds really important, Ford. Thank you for trusting me with the only thing of value in your life! I will set out immediately!”</p><p>Instead, Ford was met with utter silence, a brick wall of anger. His brother’s grip tightened around the book. There was a beat where neither of them moved and the jangling bead on the ceiling fan made a <em> click, click, click. </em></p><p>Then, Stan jumped to his feet. </p><p>“That’s <em>it?! </em> Are you <em>kidding me? </em>You finally show your face after ten years, and it’s to tell me to run an errand!?”</p><p>Ford’s mouth dropped open. He gathered the pictures and stuffed them away. The entire world was on the line. Didn’t he get that? It wasn’t about <em>them</em>! He stood to reach out to him, but Stanley jerked away. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’m up against,” Ford tried, “what I’ve been through!”</p><p>“No, no.” Stanley laughed, but in a cruel, bitter sort of way. The room was getting smaller, steamed up with Stanley’s fury. “You don't understand what <em> I’ve </em>been through! I’ve been to prison in three different countries! I’ve had to chew my way out of the <em>trunk of a freaking van! </em>You think you’ve got problems? <em> I have a mullet, Stanford! </em> Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in a fancy house in the woods! ‘Oh ho, I’m super smart and I wear a tie and write dissertations!’ Hoarding away for some <em> selfish </em> vanity project! <em> ” </em></p><p>“<em> I’m selfish? </em>Stanley, how can you say that after costing me my dream? My entire world! I’m giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won’t even listen!”</p><p>“Listen to this: It’s not that difficult to get rid of a book. You want me to get rid of it? Fine, I’ll do it right now! ” Stanley dashed for the bathroom, and Ford’s heart plunged. <em> This was a bad idea. He should never have trusted Stanley, </em></p><p>“No! You don’t understand!” His voice cracked, and he ran after him. Stan had the shower turned on, the book held high.</p><p>“You said you wanted me to have it, so I’ll do what I want with it!”</p><p>“It’s my research, Stanley!” He lunged for it, but Stanley dodged and pushed him back out of the tiny bathroom with more force than Ford was expecting. He fell to the carpet with a jolt. “Give it back!” He scrambled for his brother, but Stanley had always been just a bit taller, and he held it over Ford’s head.</p><p>“You’re crazy!” Stan shouted an elbow pressed into Ford’s neck. The shower hissed. “Do you even see how insane you’re acting? You want it back, you’re gonna have to try harder than that!” Before Ford could stop him, he plunged the book into the water pooling at the bottom of the bathtub.</p><p>“No!” Ford shoved Stan, hard, into the wall, and grabbed the soaking book out of the water. But Stan was formidable. He tackled Ford, and they rolled out of the bathroom, soaking wet and slipping on the tiles.</p><p>“You left me behind, you jerk!” Stanley roared. “It was supposed to be us forever. You ruined my life!”</p><p> “You ruined your own life!” They wrestled for the book, their fingers digging into each other. With a twist of his waist, Ford managed to kick Stan in the chest and send him sprawling backward into the bathroom with the book in hand. Stan’s head cracked against the porcelain sink and white flooded his face. He slumped to the floor.</p><p>The whole world went still.</p><p>Ford gasped for breath and the shower continued to spray. He froze with a sudden new terror. <em> Oh Gosh, please no. </em>“Stan? Stanley, I’m sorry! Are you-?”</p><p>Stan moved, sluggish, but alive. He spit and touched the back of his head gingerly. His fingers came away red.</p><p>The fight was over then. Ford could feel it. The energy drained out of Stanley, pooling on the tile with the pink water. The blinds on Stanley’s face closed tight. His eyes dulled and darkened. Somehow this scared Ford more than anything else. </p><p>Stanley’s voice rumbled in his chest. “Some brother you turned out to be.” He struggled to his feet, using the sink for support, and wiped his wet hair out of his eyes. “You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family? Well then, you can have them.” He threw the book, and Ford caught it clumsily. “Get out of here.”</p><p>“Stanley-”</p><p>“Get. Out.”</p><p>Ford didn’t hesitate. He stumbled away from Stanley, barely remembering to grab his coat. When he shut the motel door behind him, he knew with solid certainty that unless something changed, he was never going to see his brother again. The weight of this realization almost brought him to his knees. He clung to the book and raced down the cement stairs, and then into the parking lot. There, he paused and tried to steady his breathing. </p><p>Why did this always happen? Why did Stanley have to be so stubborn? If he would just <em>work </em>with him, everything would be fine! He wanted to be angry, but Stanley’s face was drilled into his skull. His eyes, blank, like he did not even care. It was worse than anger. Not caring at all? Stanley <em>always </em>cared. It was part of who he was. Stanley wasn’t hard and crass and disappointed. And yet, it seemed Ford crossed a line this time. It wasn’t fair. He was put in this position and now he had to make the best of it! He couldn’t afford to think about Stanley’s feelings. </p><p>Ford kept walking past the vending machines on the corner, down the road until he was out of sight of Stanley’s motel window, and then he sat down on the grass by the curb. The grass was still wet with morning dew, the air still cool. What was he even going to do now?</p><p>Ford opened the journal. “Please, please, please,” he prayed under his breath. The pages were damp inside, but not soaked as he feared, and there were only a few pages where the ink bled. He could fix that up. It wasn’t lost. His work was still safe. He shuttered with relief.</p><p>Ford sat on the curb, head bent, and his journal safe in his lap. Ford’s world had never been more desolate and lonely.</p><p>As things usually did, it only got worse.</p><p>When Ford opened his eyes, the color around him had drained away from the roadside. Ford snapped the book shut and jumped to his feet. He spun around, and it did not surprise him to see the top of a yellow road sign blink and peel away from the pole.</p><p>Bill Cipher grinned. He didn’t have a mouth, but this never seemed to inhibit him. His voice rang out, tinny and excitable. “Wow! What a performance, Sixer! An absolute disaster! You could have hung it on the wall with Pollocks!”</p><p>Ford glowered.</p><p>“Be honest, how did you expect that to go? Even <em> I </em>knew it wasn’t gonna work, and I have NO IDEA how humans work!” He zoomed in too close to Ford and rolled his eye when Ford refused to react.</p><p>“Fine, sourpuss. I’ll cut to the chase. So I’ve been quiet since we’ve had our little… spat. Let you drive yourself mad, go on wild goose chases, throw a tantrum, vow vengeance, blah, blah blah. But after this whole estranged-brother situation, I’m willing to offer forgiveness! You come back, keep working on the portal, and we let bygones be bygones! We can still do great things, you and I!”</p><p>Ford backed up. “Don’t be ridiculous. You want to end the world!”</p><p>Bill huffed. “I do not! Pinky-swear! We’re not ending the world, we’re changing it. For the better! You always wanted to be known as a great man, didn’t you, Sixer? If we work together, no one will ever forget your name. They’ll <em>worship </em>you. Isn’t that what you want?”</p><p>“No! Of course not!”</p><p>Bill clicked his tongue. “You can’t lie to me, buster. I’m in your head for the rest of your life, remember?” He winked, which shouldn’t have been possible with one eye, but he did it anyway. Bill grew smaller until he was the size of Ford’s hand. “Be real, Stanford. You couldn’t let <em> Stanley </em>destroy the journals because <em>you </em>were never going to destroy any of them. You don't want to. You’re not going to dismantle the portal. Without your research, what is the point of anything? What is the point of <em>you? </em>”</p><p>Ford’s heart thundered in his chest. These were not new arguments. Bill and he had had this conversation over and over, but Bill was never this blunt before. Ford was already shaken. Bill’s words did not inspire more confidence. He felt like he was standing beneath a tidal wave, and every time he tried to run, he buried himself deeper in the sand. The wave loomed, stretching farther and farther until it blotted out the sun. It was going to crush him without ever knowing he existed.</p><p>“I…”</p><p>Bill’s eye glanced at the road, and he flew backward, into the road sign. “Think about it, Sixer. I’m on your side, and I can wait. I’ve got… eternity, after all.”</p><p>When Ford blinked, color returned to the world. He was trembling like an old man, his stomach lurched, and there was a high pitched ringing in his ears.</p><p>The worst part of all of this was Bill was right. Point for point.</p><p>“There he is!” Said a voice. </p><p>Ford’s head whipped up. “What?”</p><p>A sports car came screeching to a stop in front of him, and two bulldozers of men jumped out. Before Ford could even let out a shout, they tackled him to the ground and threw a bag over his head. He wrestled, but it was fruitless. There was a sweet smell in the bag. Within seconds, his vision tunneled. The dew soaked into the back of his shirt. Ford’s brain buzzed and his chest heaved. He had time to think, <em> oh no. </em></p><p>Then, Stanford Pines sank into oblivion.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh dear, things have gone south real quick, huh? The more I write this, the more I’m convinced that Stan deserved so much better. I toned down some of the things Ford actually says in the episode because it was so mean, and it was starting to not feel realistic since this version of the argument is happening in a Slightly calmer situation verses in the lab. I did reference their actual argument from the episode, but I really wanted to make sure it wasn’t just boring word-for-word what happened in the episode, so hopefully it feels familiar, but realistic and new? Idk. The attempt was made.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. In which Stan gets a coke and Ford acquires a laser pointer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warning for threatened violence/torture in this chapter, just so you all are aware. He’s kidnapped, after all.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Officially, Stan was cleaning up the cut on the back of his head. Unofficially, he was trying not to cry, but no one wants to hear about a grown man crying, Stan included.</p><p>Someone must have hit the showerhead and jacked it up. It sprayed unevenly, turned toward the ceiling. “Stupid shower—” When Stan tried to turn it off, it squealed like a pig. In a sudden rush of rage, he punched the handle until it cranked shut and started a <em> drip, drip, drip </em>into the bathtub. </p><p>He breathed hard. He was soaked to his underwear, his shirt stained with blood. His entire body trembled with remnants of fury and adrenaline. It was quiet now that Ford was gone and the fight was over, unsettlingly so. Stan wanted to punch something again, but his hand was killing him now and he settled on trying to fix the cut, pressing his hair away from the scalp and twisting to catch a glimpse of it in the mirror. Head injuries were always difficult. You couldn’t bandage it properly without cutting the hair around it, and it always bled an incredibly unnecessary amount. Hissing, he patted it with a wet towel.</p><p>How could he have been so stupid? Did he think Ford was really going to be different? Somehow, he’d finally grow a pair of eyes and see the people around him? No. Ford was a selfish bastard, ever since they were kids. Maybe it started with his dumb fingers and the mean kids on the block who told Ford he was gross. Maybe it was his father countering this by telling Ford to buck up and prove he wasn’t. Maybe it was when they went to school and the only people who really seemed to appreciate Ford were the teachers. They didn’t mind his stupid fingers. Course, Stan never minded Ford’s fingers either, but that didn’t count. According to <em> Ford, </em>Stan didn’t notice anything past his next meal. Stan had steeped in these memories for ten years. Did all of this cause Ford to be the way he was? Or was it something in his very being that made him a total jerk?</p><p>At the moment, Stan was leaning toward the latter. His blood boiled and his throat tightened. For a second there, he <em>almost </em>fell for it. Ford actually wanted to be here. Shoot, he came <em>looking </em>for him! It was more than Stan had ever hoped for. And for good reason, apparently.</p><p>Stan ran his head under the sink until the cut stopped bleeding, which was going to have to be good enough for now. Then, he shut the soaking bathroom behind its door. He’d deal with the rest of the mess later (or never. He was really feeling <em> never </em>right now.) The carpet squelched under his foot just beyond the edge of the door. He picked a crumpled lamp off the floor and set it back onto the bedside table. It rocked drunkenly.</p><p>Whether or not Ford was telling the truth about portals and journals and magic and all that jazz was irrelevant. Maybe it was real. Why the heck not? If anyone was going to make a ‘trans-uni-what’ sit’ it would be Ford. Or Ford was crazy. Also plausible. It didn’t change the fact that he wanted Stan to do his dirty work. ‘The world is in danger.’ What an idiot. The world was fine. And even if it wasn’t, why was it Stan’s responsibility to fix it? When did the world ever do anything for him?</p><p>Stan needed a cigarette. Or a coke. Either way. Wincing, Stan rooted through his bag for a pack, only to come up empty. There was proof right there that the world hated him. Muttering under his breath, Stan snatched up his bag and poked his head out of the door.</p><p>Ford was nowhere to be seen. The parking lot was empty but for Stan’s car, some other faded blue truck, and the weeds growing between cracks in the concrete parking lot. Looking back, Stan blinked tiredly at the mess inside his room. The tv hung just above the floor, dangling by its chord, the bed covers were yanked halfway to the floor, and the bathroom door handle was painted red. Even the blinds suffered somehow, a few littering the floor like palm leaves, letting in uneven swaths of light.</p><p>Stan gave it all a dull look over. A decent person would fix a room like this.</p><p>“... Not today,” Stan said. He shut the door. He had no intention of looking at these walls any longer. It was time to put the whole matter out of his mind.</p><p>His bag swinging from his shoulder, Stan flipped his car keys around his pointer finger. He trounced down the walkway, walked through a planter of cactus, sand, and some long grasses, and threw his bag into the backseat of his car.</p><p>Right. Moving on. That sounded fantastic. Where did he want to go again? He’d have to get out the wrinkled map he’d tucked in the glove compartment at some point. Maybe, for now, he’d just drive until he got too tired to think. What a wonderful plan. He was so good at this. He’d eat a hot dog from a gas station and keep on driving. Ford could screw himself for all Stan cared!</p><p>But before he left, Stan needed a coke. Coins jingled in his palm as he made his way to the vending machines.</p><p>Stan wasn’t really thinking. He was now a resident of a nice place he liked to call <em>blatant numb denial </em>and it was currently working wonders for his mood. In fact, he was so caught up in thinking about nothing, seeing nothing, and barely managing to punch in A4 for a can, that by all logic, he <em>should </em>have missed the journal innocuously tucked in the unmowed grass.</p><p>He bent to get his coke, and when he stood up again, his eyes passed over the grassy curb to the right.</p><p>He straightened and stared.</p><p>Ford’s journal lay open on a large picture of an ugly lizard creature like it hadn’t just been the subject of the most horrendous argument of Stan’s life. The journal itself might not have been enough to steal Stan’s breath, but upon walking closer, Stan spotted Ford’s glasses a few feet off, the left lens cracked. He picked up both slowly. They were heavy in his hands. Black skid marks marred the street to his right. The grass by the book was crushed, dirt kicked up. It couldn’t have been more obvious what happened. He’d forgotten all about the whole, ‘on the run from dangerous people’ thing.</p><p>Stan cursed, his stomach swooping to an all-time low.</p><p>He didn’t stop to think. As it turned out, he didn’t need to. He broke into a sprint for the car, praying it wasn’t too late.</p><hr/><p>Ford had never been kidnapped before. This was new territory.</p><p>When he opened his eyes, his head was pounding. He was in a tiled room, bare and clinical in shades of white and olive green. There were a metal table and some little metal doors on the walls. Grime caked the cracks between the tiles, and a pile of brown leaves sat in the corner, blown in from an autumn wind, and never swept out again. Or, at least, Ford was mostly sure it was a pile of leaves. Everything was unfortunately fuzzy without his glasses. There was a small barred window above his head, which let in only the barest bit of grey light. It did not help whatsoever. He was alone and his ankles and wrists were fastened with hot pink zip ties to a heavy metal chair. His fingers were a little numb, which was concerning but happened enough that it was not important right now. What was this place?</p><p>Ford wracked his brain. Had someone discovered his inventions? He’d been so cautious to keep his research to himself. Paranoid, even. The things he studied were not the sorts of things the general public ought to know, not yet anyway. He didn’t want to imagine what the US government might do with a portal to another universe. He just wanted to understand how everything worked, not start a world war. Or <em>end </em>the world, for that matter.</p><p>Across the room, the door rattled. Ford stiffened. Beyond it, a man spoke rapid-fire Spanish in a gruff voice, and Ford suddenly wished he took Spanish in high school instead of getting the school to let him take more science courses. As it was, he knew more about marine biology than the average human being, and nothing of Spanish. It opened, and a man twice Ford’s size stepped in. He had to duck to get through the door. He had a pleasant face which might be gentle if it wasn’t for his crooked nose and the scar across his eye and left cheek. He looked at Ford like Ford was a personal offense to him, and Ford frowned, confused. This was <em>not </em>someone who was looking to steal his research.</p><p>“You think you can hide from me, hmm?” said the man. He cracked his knuckles. </p><p>Ford pressed back into the chair. “Ah. Um, sir, I think there must be some misunderstanding?”</p><p>The man cackled. “Yes, yes, Mr. Oakley. Always with the jokes!”</p><p>Mr. Oakley?</p><p>“Whoever you’re looking for, I am <em>not </em>that guy. My name isn’t Oakley! I’ve never seen you in my life!”</p><p>The man stared at him in irritated silence. “You’ve never seen my money either, then, I’m guessing? What? Do you think I’m stupid? I know your name isn’t ‘Steven Oakley.’ I <em> told </em>you not to mess with me. I said, don’t mess with Rico! I told you you’d regret it, but no! You’ve got to be <em> so dumb!” </em>He punctuated the last two words by grabbing Ford’s chin in an iron grip and jerking his face up. “I think your front four teeth will put a dent in what you owe me, yeah? Maybe a thumb for the rest.” He used his own thumb to pull down Ford’s lip, and when Ford struggled, he smacked the side of his head with ringed fingers hard enough to make Ford’s vision shoot white. Rico did not seem particularly concerned by the terrifying threat he’d just made. He talked about cutting off parts of Ford like he was commenting on sports. Ford’s hands went numb.</p><p>He’s crazy, Ford realized.</p><p>It also occurred to Ford this situation was <em>definitely </em>not about his research.</p><p>“I did some diggin’ on you. You did good, not gonna lie. You’re not an easy man to pin down, but everyone leaves traces somewhere, huh, ‘Stanley Pines’?”</p><p>Ford went cold, but Rico took his reaction as confirmation. He grinned, a mean, flashy thing.</p><p>“You’re awful quiet, Oakley- ah, <em> Pines </em> .” Rico was having fun with this. He was enjoying tormenting Ford. He had a jumpiness about him like he was high. Ford wouldn’t be surprised if he was. There was something unhinged in the man’s gaze. “Usually, this is the part where you start begging for another chance and telling <em>super irritating </em>stories that take forever to get anywhere! Where’s the banter, huh? Where’s the spunk?” Rico didn’t wait for an answer. He threw back his head and laughed. “Shoot, did I finally <em>break you</em>? I haven't even gotten to the teeth yet!”</p><p>Ford opened his mouth, but Rico shoved him away and walked off, to the table in the corner.</p><p>“I don’t usually do this myself, but you really pissed me off, so I told the boys I’d handle you!”</p><p>“What exactly did I do?”</p><p>Rico turned toward him, an instrument in hand. He was blurry now, but Ford could practically feel the glare. “You say one more stupid thing and I will take five teeth.”</p><p>Fair enough. Ford swallowed thickly. He needed a way out <em>now. </em></p><p>Rico turned back to the table of instruments.</p><p>This was his chance. Before Ford could talk himself out of it, he yanked his feet up, out of his shoes, and then wiggled through the zip ties. His legs free, he ran all at once at Rico, swinging the metal chair tied to his hands into Rico’s chest.</p><p>Surprise worked in Ford’s favor. Rico yelped and lost his footing. Ford didn’t have a second to lose. He kicked him as hard as he could in the face. This, however, didn’t work. Rico caught his foot and sent Ford sprawling over the table of terrifying instruments, and then twisted it so Ford fell to the floor. The impact pulled his arms back unnaturally and a wave of sharp pain flew through Ford. He screamed.</p><p>“I’ll kill you!” Rico roared from above him. “I’ll kill you, you-”</p><p>Outside the door, several guns went off.</p><p>Rico, a fist ready to pummel into Ford’s face, sat up.</p><p>People shouted, there was scuffling and more gunshots, some screams. Rico cursed. He punched Ford in the face, for the sake of it, it seemed, and Ford choked. Rico scrambled to his feet. “Don’t move!”</p><p>With that, Rico raced out of the room. When he opened the door, a bullet shot through and he dove headfirst into what appeared to be a deadly fight.</p><p>Ford’s head swam. His vision pulled in and out. Was this really all it took to kill him? Punch him in the head in the right place? No. No, he wasn’t going to die like this. He wasn’t going to die because of <em> Stanley. </em>Ford had too much to do. What was Stanley involved in anyhow? Why did he know these people? What sort of idiot borrowed money from a man like Rico?</p><p>Ford’s grip tightened on the knife he grabbed when Rico pushed him over the table. He couldn’t feel his arms now and Ford tried not to think about it. He cut through the zip tie on his hand. The next hand was easier. He groaned and stood wobbly. This was his third fight in twenty-four hours, counting the fight when they kidnapped him, and Ford felt like roadkill. If he could get out of here quickly, he might make it out before the numbness got any further. There wasn’t time to hesitate. The guns raged outside, their staccatos shaking Ford to his core, ramming into his skull. Knife tight in his hand, Ford crept to the door. </p><p>What he would do for his glasses right now… A quick glance out into the hallway revealed a mass of men, a good twenty or so fighting <em>something. </em>They appeared to be winning, and more of them poured out from other rooms down the hall. Was this a hospital? It looked like an old hospital. Ford squinted at the scene and ducked back into the room, cursing quietly. It didn’t matter what was going on. He needed to get out of here.</p><p>What else could he use? The surgical instruments were scattered across the floor. Ford picked up another knife so he held one in each hand. He still had his coat on, but the pockets were emptied, His heart hammered in his chest. He didn’t realize just how bad he was shaking until he tried to dig into the pockets and dropped the only remaining items twice. There was an old laser pointer, one he used when explaining graphs to Fiddleford, and a few paper clips. His kidnappers must have missed them.</p><p>Ford paused, flipping the laser pointer over in his hand. “Okay…” Ford took a deep breath. “It’s alright, Ford. We’re okay. We can work with this.” He didn’t take four years of electronic engineering for nothing. </p><p>Thirty seconds later, Ford barreled out of the room, a knife in one hand, and a modified, much more deadly laser pointer in the other. He clicked it and shot a tiny ray of red light into the legs of the first person who tried to stop him.</p><p>They screamed and dropped like a puppet with cut strings.</p><p>Down the hallway, Ford’s brother cheered.</p><p>Ford whipped toward the sound. “Stan!?” Out of the knot of fighting men, Stan surfaced for a moment like a fish out of swarming water, a large gun in one hand. He whooped.</p><p>“Ford! Let’s go!” Stan slammed someone into the floor, and then used his fist, flashing with a metal guard, to send another guy’s head through the drywall.</p><p>The shock wore off as quickly as it came. Ford raced down the hallway, each barefoot step bringing him closer to his brother. He shot the laser any time someone came near, and it seemed like he was actually going to make it. He could almost make out Stan’s face. He had on a wide grin, his forehead red with blood, and Ford wasn’t sure if it was <em>his </em>or someone else’s. If they could leave fast at enough, there wouldn’t be a need for-</p><p>Ford took another step, and this time, it faltered. He landed on someone’s hand, and tripped, falling his knees with a jolt. The laser pointer flew out of his grasp and bounced down the hall. To make matters worse, the hand he’d tripped over grabbed his leg and began to climb up to him.</p><p>Ford tried to push him off, but the person was far larger than Ford. He spun Ford over so he was on top of him. It was Rico, his nose bloody. His eyes flashed like a frightened horse's. “Who are you!?” Rico screamed.</p><p>If Ford could respond, he would have, but his headache was getting worse and worse and it was a <em> very familiar, very particular </em>feeling in combination with his numbing limbs. This headache was the first place in Ford’s priorities. He struggled beneath Rico, kicking at him the best he could.</p><p>“Stanley!” He shrieked. His vision was tunneling. “Get out of here!”</p><p>If Stan heard him, he did not say anything, and Ford couldn’t move to see if he heeded the warning.</p><p>He blocked Rico’s punch to his face. “You have to run!” He shouted at the man.</p><p>Rico laughed.</p><p>This was probably the last thing he ever did, but Ford couldn’t be sure. His entire body went numb, and his mind fell through the floor into a deep blackness. It was inevitable. Bill wasn’t going to let his Best Buddy die, after all.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Goodness, it just gets worse each chapter, huh? I cant believe this is only 28 pages right now. I feel like so much has happened.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. In which brass knuckles solves every problem ever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warning for violence and character death!!! Not Stan or ford, but people very much die in this chapter and there’s some general disturbing Bill Cipher stuff. If you’d rather skip, go down the the scene change line and continue from there.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Owning brass knuckles is illegal in twenty-one states. Back in ‘79, Stan stole a pair off of some guy, some guy who stacked empty beer bottles on the back of his fence and punched the bottles. The guy's cackle bounced down the street, through Stan’s car window. It should be noted: brass knuckles do not protect the hand from shards of glass. Instead, they make the wearer feel like they could sock God in the face and live to tell the tale. Such confidence inspires a whole manner of ill-advised violence. Properly enthused by the potential, Stan knelt to the concrete and tugged the knuckles out of the guy’s grip once the guy inevitably knocked himself out. He did not blame the man for improperly assuming that with such weight in his hands, he could take out a street lamp. Brass knuckles inspired giddiness of this sort.</p><p>They served Stan well, and seven years later, the color was a little dull, but they most definitely did their job. A person has not truly lived until they punch someone in the face and that face goes through the wall like both are made of paper. Stan only wore one of the brass knuckles. The other handheld his gun. He shot at people’s legs and aimed his fist at their jaws instead of their noses. He wasn’t about to kill these guys. Not because he held them in particularly high esteem. Stan just had enough problems as it was without adding ‘wanted for murder’ to his list of crimes to think about at night.</p><p>Rico had more men stacked up in this old hospital than he’d let on when Stan worked with him. They swarmed into the hallways like cockroaches. Stan was in no way prepared to fight thirty people, but it was a little too late to back out now. At least he pinned Ford’s location correctly. Rico wasn’t an incredibly creative individual. He liked everything to be in order. It was an odd combination. Rico’s temper might spark murder at any moment but he also took care to organize his finances and color code his files himself. It was… weird. But Stan wasn’t complaining. Rico <em>always </em>took his hostages here and would continue to do so until the authorities popped the lid and spotted all the crime crawling around in this condemned hospital just outside of the city.</p><p>Ford appeared to be holding his own. What was he doing? Bright flashes of red sparked at the edges of Stan’s vision, but he didn’t have the time to look properly. He’d just have to keep going until Ford got close enough for Stan to grab him and duck into one of these side rooms. Fortunately, Stan didn’t have a problem with continuing to fight. Blood roared in Stan’s ears. There was a momentum to big a fight like this, different than the fight with Ford. He was furious then. Everything hurt. Punching gangsters in the face? This was good ol’ fashion blowing off steam, and he wasn’t about to turn that down! </p><p>Of course, something had to bring him out of his high. Someone shouted. Ford. Stan jammed an elbow into a dude’s throat and took his second of reprieve to look at Ford. Ford was on the floor, arms pinned down by the hulk of a gangster on his chest. It was Rico, foaming at the mouth.</p><p>“Stanley, get out of here!” Ford screamed.</p><p>Which made no sense at all. He was trying to <em>rescue </em>him.</p><p>Something changed between the moment Stanley ducked under a punch, and the next when he tried to push toward Ford once more. The change was so sudden, so obvious, Stan froze, eyes locked on Ford, and was consequently socked in the stomach. He was suddenly nauseous and it had nothing to do with the fight.</p><p>Ford had stopped struggling. The edges of his lips looked caught by hooks, stretched in demented taxidermy of a grin. When he blinked, Stan could have sworn his eyes flashed yellow in the light.</p><p>“Oh, hello!” Ford said to Rico, who was equally stunned.</p><p>Ford didn’t give Rico a chance to respond. He grabbed Rico’s head and yanked his neck in a single, smooth motion. He did it matter-of-factly, like a farmer wringing a chicken’s neck.</p><p>Stan almost dropped his weapon. “Holy- Ford!”</p><p>Ford didn’t seem to hear him.</p><p>Stan bowled through another man, and when he looked up again, Rico was on the floor, eyes glassy, facing the ceiling, chest to the ground. Ford, on the other hand, had moved on. He darted around the hall. He didn’t seem to have a weapon, and he didn’t seem to need one. He moved faster than he should have logically been able to move, and people collapsed before Stan could even see what Ford did to kill them. It made Stan dizzy. They dropped one after the other like blades of grass. Stan didn’t need to fight anymore. They were running. He backed up a step, chest heaving and ears ringing.</p><p>Stan couldn’t make his brain compute what his eyes were seeing. His grip tightened on the gun even though he was mostly sure he did not have any more bullets.</p><p>It did not take long for Ford to eliminate the threat. He paused, breathing hard, and swiped his mouth sloppily, leaving a trail of blood on his cheek. “Wowzer, <em> ow! </em>I always forget how much bodies hurt! So many nerves.”</p><p>He leveled his gaze on Stan, and suddenly, he was right in front of him, an iron grip on his hand, so tight it forced him to drop the gun. Stan didn’t have a chance to run. Ford shook his hand, hard. “Ah! You must be the infamous Stanley Pines! You got fat!”</p><p>Stan stuttered. “What- Ford-” He tried to pull away, but it was useless. Ford’s hand was sticky with blood and there was no way he could break Ford’s grip. None of this made <em>any </em>sense.</p><p>Ford blinked one eye at a time. It reminded Stan of an insect or a lizard. Stan shivered. "What's going on?"</p><p>Ford whipped his head back and laughed. “Right, right. He hasn’t told you about <em>me </em>yet. Nice to meet you! Name’s Bill Cipher. You’d call me a demon. I’m your brother’s… friend. Yeah, I think you could say we’re friends. We have an agreement, anyway. Everything was going great till he chickened out. But that’s okay! I’m getting him back on track! After all, he owes me his life now!”</p><p>Stan’s feet turned to stone. In fact, his entire body was slowly solidifying. He had never been this terrified in his entire life. There was such a perverse <em>wrongness </em>about his brother that Stan could not help but believe him. This person was not Ford. “What are you going to do to me?”</p><p>Not-Ford, or <em> Bill</em>, Stan supposed, (Bord?) raised an eyebrow and appeared to legitimately think about this.</p><p>“So here’s where I’m coming from. I need your brother to open the portal and let me out of the mindscape. He is <em>not </em>your biggest fan, Stanley,” He chuckled. “but I’m thinking killing you might be a bit much. He will probably be very irritated.” Bill squinted. He did the weird, blinking one eye at a time thing again, and Stan suddenly got the impression that Bill didn’t know how to blink properly. “Then again, isolating him and slowly driving him insane was really making some progress, so…” Bill shrugged. “I mean, what is a brother anyway?”</p><p>His other hand shot forward to wrap around Stan’s neck, but Stan was more than ready for something like this. He ducked, making Ford lurch forward. Then, while he was off-balance, Stan did the only thing he could think to do.</p><p>He socked the demon in the face.</p><p>He wasn’t expecting it to work, honestly. But to his shock, Bill’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed in a heap at Stan’s feet. He was out cold.</p><p>Trusty brass knuckles, at it again.</p>
<hr/><p>There was a nice little tune going around in Stan’s head. It went a little like, <em> what the heck, what, what, what! I’m going to die! We are all going to die! </em>The car jutted over a hole in the road, jostling the unconscious figure stuffed into the backseat like a used party pinata. Ford’s hand was handcuffed to a bar at the bottom of Stan’s seat. He was still unconscious and part of Stan worried he was seriously injured. The other part was more than happy Ford had not moved. His brother’s cracked glasses sat on the dashboard, vibrating with the car.</p><p>Stan’s hands ached on the wheel, but he couldn’t relax. His entire body hunched forward, shoulders to his ears, knees to his stomach. Stan drove north. He hadn’t thought past that. He wasn’t finished panicking, and foresight didn’t mesh with panic.</p><p>Of course, Ford didn’t tell him the whole story! He wasn’t just trying to shut down a bad machine. It wasn’t the portal itself. No, there was a real and present danger! (And yes, he did say the world was in danger, but there were eons between, ‘the world is in danger’ and ‘I’m possessed by a homicidal demon who wants to do horrible things to me and the world.’ There was a <em> literal, actual </em>demon who murdered more than a dozen men right before Stan’s eyes. Was this why Ford needed Stan to hide the journal; to make sure Ford and/or Bill couldn’t find it? Would the thing even let Ford destroy the portal? Had he tried? Stan found it very unlikely Ford even attempted such an action. His reaction to Stan trying to drown the journal was telling enough. He wanted to brush everything under the rug and return to his life like he hadn’t made a mistake. It was… painfully predictable.</p><p>Stan should have left Ford at the hospital for the police to find. Let him face the consequences of his poor life choices for once. But…</p><p>Stan glanced in the rearview mirror. Ford was gonna leave bloodstains all over the seats. How likely was ‘Bill’ going to let Ford get arrested? Not very. None of this was going to end well, but Stan was already resolved to it. It was just a matter of minimizing the damage as best he could. Stopping Bill from strangling more people definitely counted as minimizing damage.</p><p>A car swerved around a bend in the road, and Stan whipped to the side to avoid it. His heart hammered. He wasn’t in any condition to pay attention to driving. The desert mountains, unoccupied by another soul for hundreds of miles, were a good enough place to stop as any. They were sparse and dotted with gnarled plants on orange stone. Another curve revealed a small dirt road leading somewhere Stan couldn’t see. Perfect.</p><p>He slowed and eased onto the maintenance road. The car bumped around, sending Ford’s glasses to the floor. There did not seem to be any destination at the end of the track. It just hid them amid little trees with shiny red bark. There was a little wooden picnic table bleached grey by the sun. It occurred to Stan that if he was going to kill Ford, this was the place to do it. The thought startled him so badly, he yanked the car into reverse instead of park and had to quickly compensate.</p><p>Everything fell still. Grasshoppers hummed in the bushes, a rushing roar which ebbed and flowed like the sea.</p><p>Stan shut off the engine. He threw open his door, gun shoved in his waistband and paced up and down the dusty road, eyes continuously on Ford.</p><p>Why on earth did these insane things happen to him? Stan settled on top of the picnic table and glared steadily at the car. His knee bounced.</p><p>Ford moaned.</p><p>Cursing, Stan scrambled to his feet, fumbling for the gun. However, it wasn’t necessary. Inside, Ford scratched at the door. It popped open, and Ford blinked blearily at Stan, up on an elbow. His eyes were normal, bloodshot, but familiar. He tried to lift his handcuffed wrist but obviously was restrained.</p><p>“Seriously?” he croaked.</p><p>Stan didn’t lower the gun.</p><p>“What? Are you going to <em> shoot </em>me?”</p><p>It was definitely Ford. Stan dropped the weapon to his side. There weren’t any bullets left anyhow. “What on earth just happened, you son of a-”</p><p>Ford interrupted him with a groan, rubbing his head. There was a nice yellow and green bruise forming where Stan hit him. His voice was coarse. “I guess there isn’t a chance you’ll take me to the hospital? I’m hurting… everywhere.”</p><p>Stan ground his teeth and stomped back to the picnic table, sitting so roughly, it lurched beneath him. He ignored Ford’s quiet ‘<em> a no, then.’ </em>He should have figured out what he wanted to do from here before Ford woke up, but he’d been too busy freaking out.</p><p>“So… you met Bill?”</p><p>Stan glared. Ford looked away.</p><p>“Right. Obviously… did he-?”</p><p>“He killed everyone.”</p><p>Ford paled. He dropped his head into his elbow and shivered. “Right.”</p><p>Neither of them spoke. The weight of the day’s events pressed heavy on them, roaring with the hot wind and buzz of the insects. After a moment, Ford took a deep breath and looked up, his jaw set. “I didn’t want to get into the whole problem. It wasn’t necessary, and I didn’t want to endanger you more than I had to.”</p><p>That was rich. An easy translation: I didn’t trust you enough to tell you the whole problem and/or I was embarrassed by how badly I screwed up. Stan picked at the splintery wood, mulling over the knot of anger deep in his gut.</p><p>Forget what Ford wanted. What did <em> Stan </em>want? Stan wanted his brother back. That was the whole of it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t fair.</p><p>“But, now you understand how important this situation is, right?”</p><p>Stan raised a hand. “I’m stopping you right there. I don’t think you understand how people actually work, Ford. See, you could have said, hey, Stan, my brother, I made a horrible mistake and sold my soul to the devil. Please, I need your help.”</p><p>“I did say that!”</p><p>“You did not!” Stan caught his breath and clenched his fists. Why didn’t he understand? Ugh, No. He wasn’t going to argue with him. He didn’t have the energy for another shouting match. He kicked at the dirt. “You said, 'I know we haven’t seen each other in a decade and I single-handedly ruined your life, but I created an amazing thing. Fortunately, it's not working out, so please take out my garbage, Stan! I’ll see you in another ten years maybe.’”</p><p>Ford’s mouth dropped open. He sputtered. “When you say it like-!”</p><p>“That’s exactly what happened!”</p><p>“I didn’t mean it like that!”</p><p>Stan ground the bases of his palms into his eyes and growled tiredly. “Whatever. Fine. You’ve now made this my problem too, Ford.”</p><p>Ford stayed quiet, for once.</p><p>“Which… is a real jerk move, but you do a lot of jerky things, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”</p><p>Ford looked like he was going to protest, and Stan was this close to running over there and kicking the door shut.</p><p>But, something shifted in Ford’s face, a sort of sadness. He studied the fabric of the seat with interest, his shoulders tense.</p><p>“I’m… thank you. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”</p><p>Stan swallowed. It wasn’t an apology, but it wasn’t nothing. Maybe it wasn’t as hopeless as he thought.</p><p>Ford cocked his head. “Course, I suppose it was your fault I was kidnapped-”</p><p>There it was.</p><p>“Ford!” Stan threw his hands in the air.</p><p>“What? It was!”</p><p>“I know! I forgot about them!”</p><p>“You <em>forgot </em>? How do you forget you’re on the run from the cartel!?”</p><p>“Well, you see, my twin brother, who I haven't seen in ten years-”</p><p>“Okay, okay!” Ford swiped a hand at him.</p><p>Laughter did not seem like the proper response to this situation. And yet, a small chuckle bubbled from Stan’s chest like an unruly burp. He chuckled and Ford joined him until they were both laughing. Wiping his eyes, Stan exhaled in a strained way. “Oh gosh, this is insane.”</p><p>Ford made a sound in agreement.</p><p>Stan scrubbed his face and ran his hands through his hair, eyes on the dirt. When he closed his eyes, Bill/Ford and his horrible, unnatural grin flashed through his mind.</p><p>“What do we do now?” Ford murmured.</p><p>That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it?</p><p>Stan chewed the inside of his cheek and looked up. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”</p><p>Ford nodded. And he did. He told him about his research grant, about moving to Gravity Falls, about discovering a mural in a cavern, about summoning a being who knew <em> everything. </em></p><p>“And this didn’t freak you out?”</p><p>Ford shrugged. “In retrospect… well, anyhow, at the time, he didn’t introduce himself as a demon.”</p><p>“But it still seemed like a good idea to make a deal with an otherworldly being of unimaginable power.”</p><p>“We’re talking about <em> infinite knowledge</em>, Stanley!”</p><p>“Alright, alright.” Stan gestured for him to continue. Ford did. He told him about all the things he learned from Bill, the incredible help he supplied, and how they began to build a portal into other dimensions. He told him about enlisting the help of his college roommate, and ‘Fiddleford’s’ eventual abandonment.</p><p>“Smart man.”</p><p>“Are you going to let me finish?”</p><p>“Hrmm.”</p><p>Eventually, Bill showed his hand. He was trying to take over the world. Ford didn’t know what to do. He hid the other journals and tried to reach out to Stan to get him to come to Gravity Falls. Stan wrinkled his nose. “You tried to send me a <em> postcard </em>?”</p><p>“Can you just be mad at me later?”</p><p>“Like <em> that </em>would have worked!”</p><p>This information caught Stan up to the present. “And so I went to find you. You know the rest.”</p><p>Stan cursed quietly. He’d already made his mind up, and as <em>stupid </em>a decision as it was, it was the only option Stan could really make in good conscience. “Alright. So we’ve got a few problems. One: journals that explain how to operate your hell portal. Two: hell portal that has to be destroyed. Three: demon your head who is more than willing to kill people, and probably doesn’t want you to destroy the portal.”</p><p>Ford blinked. “I don't know… I didn’t even think about that. He hasn’t <em> tried </em>to stop me.”</p><p>Stan snorted. “Because you haven’t actually done anything worth stopping.”</p><p>This all appeared to be news to Ford. He shrunk in on himself and said nothing. Stan didn’t press it. They’d deal with that mess later. If worse came to worse, Stan could keep Ford handcuffed and destroy the darn portal himself. Could he do that? Was it like a smash-the-door-with-an-ax sort of thing or more of a disarm-the-bomb?</p><p>This involved Stan actually going with Ford.</p><p>Stan sighed. “This is what we’re doing. I’m going to get in the car and we’re going to drive to a rest stop and clean up and I’m going to eat a boatload of gas station food. Then, we go to Gravity Falls, and figure out a way to keep the demon out of your head so we can get rid of the portal. Is that possible?”</p><p>Ford considered this, brow furrowed. “I’d have to look back in my journals, but there <em>was </em>a spell against malevolent forces I discovered. I could try to alter it…”</p><p>Finally, some good news.</p><p>“Why didn’t you do that before?”</p><p>“I didn’t think it was necessary. Also, it’s very difficult to gather supplies and complete the ritual with one person.”</p><p>Stan rubbed his hands together. “Alright. So we do that, then we destroy the portal. <em> Then </em>we get rid of the journal.” It made much more sense ordering it this way. One step at a time.</p><p>He felt a little better with a plan, and Ford seemed to feel the same. He nodded, eyes unfocused as he thought. “Okay,” he murmured. “We do that.”</p><p>“I wasn’t asking your permission, Ford.” His words were gruff, but his tone less so. “You’re the one handcuffed to my car.”</p><p>Ford grunted and wrinkled his nose at the restraint. “It was logical, I admit. Bill can take control whenever he feels like it. I would have done the same in your situation.”</p><p>Stan could have said something very biting like <em> I bet you would. </em>But he kept his mouth shut and stood. The handcuff key was in his pocket, and he fished it out. “Here.” He bent, unlocked the cuff from the bottom of the driver’s seat, and held the other cuff as Ford slowly eased himself out of the car, wincing all the while. Stan frowned and opened his mouth to question him, but Ford was already ahead.</p><p>“I believe I am merely heavily bruised, nothing too serious. He may have pulled something in my arms…” Ford clenched his right hand carefully, wiggling his fingers. “Also, my jaw is killing me.”</p><p>“Ah. That would be me. Brass knuckles.”</p><p>Ford blinked. “Really?”</p><p>“Yeah. Hit a guy on the jaw, and he’s out like a light. Nature’s snooze button.”</p><p>“Good to know… I suppose.”</p><p>Stan led him around the car to the passenger seat, opened the door. Ford folded inside without protest. Neither did he protest when Stan handcuffed him to the door handle.</p><p>Stan settled into the driver’s seat. Ford, who must have seen them on the floor, contentedly cleaned the smudges off his glasses. It struck Stan that the last time Ford sat in that spot, they were seventeen. He’d seen Ford do this exact thing hundreds of times. He breathed shakily and turned on the car. “So,” he grunted, shifting the gears into reverse. “Where is Gravity Falls again?”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have never punched someone in my entire life, much less while wearing brass knuckles, but a girl can imagine, cant she? Besides, I have a old con man to live through vicariously. Is that weird? It’s a little weird.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. In which Stanley is charming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is a little short, but if i dont split this chapter and the next, its going to be weirdly long lmo. this part wasn't even supposed to happen but here we are</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ford wondered if walking right through theft sensors and breaking into a run when the alarm went off was more noticeable than blatantly walking around theft sensors. Apparently it was. These were things Ford never in his life thought he’d learn, nor find relevant. Theft made him very nervous. Like, he often panicked that he might accidentally steal something. He was absent-minded enough. It could happen! When he was a kid, he and Stan were in the grocery store card playing with Christmas ornaments they grabbed at some point. You know, the ones like little toys? He didn’t remember Stanley’s, but Ford was playing with a Donald Duck, a hook placed on his blue jacket. He quacked at his brother, who kept trying to smash Donald into the bottom of the cart. His mom rattled above their heads about their neighbor Sherry’s divorce, talking to them, but not exactly checking that her sons were listening. She didn’t notice Ford’s Donald when they checked out and a bagger packed groceries around them. Their heads poked above the white plastic pile like easter island heads. His mom told him to mind the eggs, dear. She didn’t notice when she loaded them into the backseat. She didn’t notice until she unloaded them from the car in the driveway. She frowned at Ford’s Donald. “Oh drat it! You can’t just <em>take things</em>, Stanford! That’s stealing! You too, Stanley!”</p><p>Ford started crying, so Stanley started crying, and their mom ushered them inside. They’d have to take the ornaments back tomorrow. The Pines were <em>not </em>thieves, thank you very much. They worked hard for the things they wanted. No one was going to sit the world in their lap for them.</p><p>“What would we even do with these?” his mom mused at the ornaments. It wasn’t like they set up a Christmas tree.</p><p>Ford couldn’t sleep that night. The ornament sat on his windowsill next to Stanley’s, and Donald glared at him with a shiny black eye. The police were going to come any minute now. They should have gone back to the store right away. Maybe then they wouldn’t notice! But… the police <em>always </em>knew about a bad guy. That was their job! Was he a bad guy?</p><p>Stanley was sleeping, Ford remembered that, and he also remembered being very confused. Why wasn’t Stanley wasn’t waiting for the police too? Didn’t he know they did a bad thing? It wasn’t a bad thing like a <em> kid </em>bad thing. It wasn’t crying when they left the park, or not eating his noodles, or throwing a toy. This was a bad thing that grown-ups did. Ford guessed he’d have to leave his toys here when he went to jail. He wouldn’t be able to feed his ant farm! Ford was going to fall apart <em>right now </em>if they didn’t do something.</p><p>He jumped out of the bed and drug a very-much-still-asleep Stanley down the hall in a patter of feet. They halted in front of their parent’s bedroom. They weren’t allowed in. Daddy made that very clear. Stanley got a spanking the last time he snuck in to get the TV remote dad kept in his bedside drawer. Television made children into idiots and his sons did not want to be idiots, did they?</p><p>Stanley was awake enough now to blink like an owl. “deaming ‘bout hot dogs…” he slurred.</p><p>“We gotta go to the store. Mom can drive us.”</p><p>Stanley’s gaze sharpened. “She’s sleeping. <em> Dad’s </em>sleeping.”</p><p>He made a valid point. There were a few options here. Go to jail. Wake up Dad and make dad <em>very angry. </em>Or, find another way to get to the store. Ford wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know how to get to the store.”</p><p>“Me neither.”</p><p>“Drat it,” Ford said, in that way his mother did.</p><p>He was very afraid of going to jail, but he was more afraid of Dad.</p><p>Stanley shook Ford’s arm. “Hey, Ford. Ford, hey. Ford, jus’ wait until they wake up!”</p><p>“But the police!”</p><p>Stanley patted Ford’s shoulder. “Ford, it's a good toy. Stores got lots of them. Sometimes, you need a good toy.” He smiled. “And, the police can’t get kids, silly.”</p><p>Ford wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t know what else to do. “You sure?”</p><p>Stanley shrugged. And that was that. They never did return the dumb ornaments. They sat on the windowsill for a while and then ended up buried in a toy box. It was the only thing Ford ever stole, as far as he was aware. He planned to keep it that way.</p><p>Stanley, it was becoming increasingly obvious, did not have the same restrictions as Ford. Maybe he never did.</p><p>Across the street, Ford chewed the inside of his lip and squeezed his hands together. He watched. If he twisted his hands too much, the handcuff (where did Stan even get these?) pinched his skin. The car window was a little fogged in the morning chill and no amount of rubbing it with an elbow seemed to banish it for good. Stanley was talking amiably to a pretty lady who handled the front desk of the streetside outlet. He laughed at something and waved his hands. The lady laughed along with him. She leaned forward on her elbow, smiling like it was easy.</p><p>Ford really wished he hadn’t lost his wallet in all the ruckus. The tension was actually going to kill him. “Come <em> on </em>!”</p><p>Finally, <em> finally, </em>Stan turned toward the doors. As he did, he dropped something, his keys probably. He reached down, stepping around the theft sensors to grab them, and lifted the keys at the lady with a smile. It was astonishingly smooth. If Ford didn’t know what he was doing, he wouldn’t have even noticed.</p><p>As he jogged across the street, Stan wore the most ornery grin Ford had ever seen. He slid into the driver seat like he had something to be proud of.</p><p>“You’re not going to believe how much I got.”</p><p>“Go! Let’s go!”</p><p>Stanley barked a laugh but stuck the keys into the car. It roared to life. “Calm down, she didn’t even suspect. In fact…” He flipped his hand over and revealed a phone number in black sharpie on his palm.</p><p>Ford sputtered. “W-why?”</p><p>“I’m a freaking charming guy, Ford, what do you want from me?” Ford couldn’t quite read his tone. It balanced somewhere between amused and actually irritated.</p><p>They bumped down the road for a good twenty minutes.</p><p>“Alright,” Stan said. “I’m starting to sweat here.”</p><p>“Fine. This is probably far enough.”</p><p>Stan rolled his eyes, and Ford took it upon himself to ignore it. Pulling into the parking lot of an unfortunately faded family dentist practice, Stan took off his seatbelt and unzipped his jacket. Between the two of them, they’d managed to pull together a single outfit that wasn’t covered in blood, sweat, and bathwater. Stan currently wore this ensemble. It included Ford’s extra red sweater, socks, dress shoes, and Stan’s jeans, and a weirdly puffy, oversized black jacket. It made more sense now why Stan owned such a piece of clothing. They weren’t able to hide the cut on Stan’s cheek or his worsening black eye, but it turned out alright, hadn’t it? Stan picked at the turtle neck and began to unload the jacket.</p><p>Ford had <em>no idea </em>how Stanley managed to get so much clothing stuffed in there. It was like a darn Pandora’s box.</p><p>“Figured you’re, what, few sizes smaller than me? We got <em>jeans. </em>” He flicked them at Ford. “We got t-shirts. We got dress shirts because I’m not aiding n' abetting your whole sweater jig...”</p><p>“My whole… It’s cold in Oregon, Stan.”</p><p>“Whatever you say,”</p><p>Stan pulled out an obnoxiously bright dress shirt. It reminded Ford of a bowling hall carpet. “Now this, <em> this </em>is beautiful! It’s for me, by the way.”</p><p>Ford blinked. “I couldn’t have known.”</p><p>There were some socks, underwear, etc. essentials they’d need until they got to Gravity Falls. Ford folded the clothes Stan dropped in his lap, careful to keep them away from the rest of him, splattered in dirt and blood. He’d spent most of yesterday and then the drive through the night in the clothes he wore now. As soon as they found a truck stop with showers, they could finally get clean and dressed in fresh clothes.</p><p>Ford understood, he did, that this was essential. They couldn't walk around covered in blood. It still made him feel like he swallowed one of the half-a-million cactuses they kept driving by. There was no way they were going to get away with this. Surely. They couldn’t afford to commit crimes when they were running away from a literal blood bath (a blood bath <em>he </em>caused. He wasn’t thinking about that.). The whole situation made Ford painfully twitchy.</p><p>Stan reached up, tugged Ford’s sweater shirt over his head, wincing a bit, and pulled on the bowling carpet shirt. Half of the collar was flicked up like a puppy’s flopped over ear. Stan smiled down at the shirt. It was… one of the few smiles Ford had witnessed since he’d seen Stanley again. He looked younger when he smiled.</p><p>Ford sighed. “Shouldn’t you wait until you’ve showered? You’ll get the clothes dirty.”</p><p>Stan glared at him, and now he <em>was </em>irritated. Ford didn’t know why. He hadn’t said anything! “If you don’t want the darn clothes, Stanford-”</p><p>What? Ford blinked. “I didn’t say I didn’t!”</p><p>“Then don’t whine!”</p><p>“I wasn’t!”</p><p>“You- it’s-” Stan growled at his hands. “I’m wearing the shirt, okay?”</p><p>“Okay!”</p><p>“Don’t boss me around.”</p><p>Ford groaned and dropped his head against the headrest. “<em>I get it</em>, Stan!” It was stupid. He didn’t even say anything.</p><p>Stan threw his clothes into the backseat as he took to the road. They stayed quiet as the town melted away, eventually surrendering to the desert once more. Ford couldn’t wait until they got into middle California. That would probably be their first bit of not-desert. The southwest was so much bigger than it looked on a map. They had hours and hours of driving ahead of them.</p><p>The silence couldn’t be maintained forever. Words slithered into the space between them soon enough. Ford was never good at dealing with quiet. “It’s not… I know it’s not a big deal to you,” he started. “But you lead a different lifestyle than me, and I’m just not accustomed.”</p><p>Stan grunted. “A ‘different lifestyle’. What the heck is that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“You know,”</p><p>“Really? No, I don't. Why don’t you spell it out?” Ford was already wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut. He didn’t mean to offend him. Every time he opened his mouth, Stanley bristled like a bulldog. Ford couldn’t back off now. Why was he so bad at this? Stan glanced at him, eyes hard, and then fixed his gaze on the road once more. “Well?”</p><p>“Well… you’re a criminal.”</p><p>“There it is! Easy peasy! Now, I’ve done a lot of bad stuff. Stole a lot, tricked a lot of people, been to jail, trafficked pugs a few times, also drugs. It happens. I’m not proud of it, but I haven't had the luxury to be a goodie-two-shoes like <em>some people</em>. But you know what I haven't done?”</p><p>Really? Ford tried to bore a hole in the ceiling with his eyes. “Are you seriously going to bring it up every-”</p><p>“Never made a deal with a murder-demon! Never did that!”</p><p>Ford’s mouth clicked shut. He glared out the window, but even then, he could still see Stan’s dull reflection, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “You’re the one handcuffed to the car, Ford. Maybe keep that in mind.”</p><p>Ford wanted to punch something. He settled for slowly pulling very hard on the handcuff until it hurt. He chewed on his anger for a minute before swallowing it like a thick pill.</p><p>“... fair enough.”</p><hr/><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>writing family arguments is so dang fun. literally no one has any chill or moderation ever.<br/>also, thank you so much to the 7 same people lol who consistently comment. i see you. i love you. i hope you have a lovely day.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. In which Ford takes a bath in soda pop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warning for threatened violence!!<br/>One time, on the way back from summer camp in a big ol’ hot bus, we broke down in Buttonwillow, and as far as i remember, this was about the extent of the town. I and twenty other teenagers spent hours traumatizing the Denny’s employees. If you’re from there... my apologies, I’m sure its a lovely place.<br/>Just had my first week of school, flew back to university. If all goes well and people wear their dang masks, maybe I’ll get to stay here longer than 3 weeks lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Buttonwillow, California boasted one gas station and a Denny’s. Stan’s red car idled in front of the former.</p><p>“See? There’s a kid at the counter.”</p><p>“Maybe they’re just in there?”</p><p>“Perhaps...” Ford adjusted his glasses. “No, the lights are on.”</p><p>Stan hummed and pulled into the gas station. One of the windows was boarded up. Weeds littered the cracks in the concrete. He jerked into park and tossed Ford the handcuff keys as he got out. Ford fumbled to catch them one-handed. They didn’t keep Ford handcuffed the entire time. It was just unrealistic. He had to go to the bathroom eventually. Not to mention, he’d wanted to take a shower at that truck station two days ago. Both of them wordlessly decided they’d rather die at the hands of a merciless demon then go to the bathroom and shower together. Was it a risk? Sure. But Ford hadn’t felt Bill’s presence since the confrontation with Rico, and he assured Stanley he almost always had considerable warning before Bill took over. He’d get a headache, or his body would start to go numb. Also, the handcuff hurt when you wore it all night long. He unfolded from the passenger seat and swayed woozily for a second. He could do with some water, probably. At the pump, Stan thumbed through a battered wallet and accepted the handcuff key back without looking up. </p><p>Gas, it turned out, was not impossible, but much more difficult to steal than other stuff. It was easier to steal cash from tip jars to pay for gas than to attempt to steal gas from other cars. In this case, there weren’t any cars to steal from anyhow. Stanley wasn’t telling Ford any of this. He was incredibly cagey about anything related to the subject, which Ford didn't fault him for. Ford hadn’t exactly reacted well. In fact, he did not talk to Ford much at all. He was cordial enough, but it wasn’t a <em> conversation </em>and Ford was acutely aware that in this instance, Stanley’s behavior was entirely his fault.</p><p>Ford had little else to do but watch the complex steps Stan went through to steal without getting caught. Ford had always been told theft was lazy. Their mother lied for a living by pretending to be psychic, but she’d stressed the difference between withholding the truth, and actively taking from someone. She offered a service and got paid for that service. Their dad thought the same way. His pawn shop was not exactly <em>honest </em>work, but no one would dare say that to his father’s face. He worked hard for what he wanted. Watching Stanley, it was clear stealing wasn't the easy option in their current situation. It was the only option. Extreme measures for extreme times, and all that. It made sense that Stanley had to steal, and it made sense that Stanley had to help Ford. It was necessary to save the world. Their dad used to rant about how lazy Stanley was, and Ford had agreed. In fact, he would say for a good portion of their childhood, Stan <em>was </em>lazy. Now Stan was… well, Ford didn’t know yet, but Stanley sure didn’t sit around as Dad said.</p><p>Stan grumbled to himself and glanced at the gas station. “Could use a coffee anyway…” Here was another new thing about Stanley. He drank coffee now, and he drank it black. Ford had always liked the taste of coffee by itself, but when they were teenagers, Stan preferred soda. </p><p>Ford followed Stan inside. The little bell over the door jingled and the blonde teenager at the counter glanced up from her magazine. She was maybe eighteen? She smiled politely and went back to a magazine, and Ford was grateful. He kept the handcuff around his wrist, the other cuff unlocked in his hand. It was easy to hide under the sleeve of the jacket Stan got for him. They wandered down an aisle filled with soda, snacks, and a few random impulse-buy items. Stan kept up a steady stream of conversation which Ford only vaguely paid attention to.</p><p>“Ford, Ford, look-”</p><p>Stan poked a finger through a wild-haired fabric finger puppet. It was a vague facsimile of Thomas Edison, complete with a little lightbulb, and it was hooked on a stand with a dozen or so other historical figures. Stan wiggled the puppet. “It’s you.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>Stan unhooked it and moved to slip his hand in his pocket, but Ford smacked him lightly. “We don’t need that.”</p><p>Stan put the puppet back with a roll of his eyes and continued down the aisle alone. Ford wandered behind him. As he continued, he happened on the warm-food section. Ford watched the rolling hot dogs on an electric heater, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. His stomach growled. He’d eaten half a pastry this morning, and it was not cutting it. He turned half an ear to Stan’s conversation with the cashier as he imagined what the hot dog must taste like.</p><p>“Oh yeah? An art degree,” said Stan from across the store, “impressive!”</p><p>The hot dogs continued to roll, glistening in the light. When was the last time Ford had a full meal? What would he do for a hot dog right now...</p><p>“... brother’s a bit of an artist ... ” Stan said.</p><p>It was pulling him in, closer and closer, until everything else faded and he could only see this rolling hot dog. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see. There was a buzzing behind his ears that grew steadily louder until a roaring static poured through him.</p><p>It all came to a screeching stop, and Ford jerked away with a sudden surge of terror. He was getting smart! Ford fell into a stand, knocking a pile of soda cans to the floor. He fumbled for the handcuff as his vision tunneled, and the last thing he saw was that stupid, rolling hot dog.</p><p>Then Ford was awake again, flung from his body and dipping in and out of the ceiling. This was unusual. Bill didn’t usually allow him to stay conscious when he was in his body. Was this good or bad?</p><p>Below him, Bill winked and pushed over another stand of snacks. Ford sputtered. “Stop it!!”</p><p>“Can it, Pointdexter!”</p><p>How could they be so stupid? Of course, Bill would adjust to any restrictions put upon him. He was a being of infinite knowledge! And now Ford was a balloon on the ceiling.</p><p>He clenched his fists helplessly. “What are you doing?”</p><p>Bill grinned. “It’s time you learned a lesson, kiddo. You think you’re so high and mighty now that you’ve got your loyal dog. A real Lassie, that one. But he's not like us. You think you can trust him, but he’s not willing to do what it takes.”</p><p>Stanley. Oh, gosh, he had to warn Stanley! Ford swam across the gas station so that he was just above his brother. Moving through the air was weird. He didn’t have anything to push against, but he could kind of wave his arms about, and it forced him in the direction he wanted to go.</p><p>At the crash, Stan and the cashier's conversation stopped abruptly. Stan straightened. He turned casually toward the disturbance. “You had one job…” Ford heard him mutter.</p><p>“Is he alright?” said the cashier, she moved to come out from behind the counter.</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry. He’s fine.” Stan raised his voice. “Right, Ford?” A lone can of pit cola rolled down the aisle and stopped at Stan’s boots.</p><p>Stan cursed quietly and reached into his pocket, only to go still. Ford did too. He could picture Stan’s bronze knuckles sitting in the car, in the door compartment, he was pretty sure. If he had a body, Ford would have been sweating. As it was, he floated in circles and cursed.</p><p>Stan smiled at the young woman. “Just a sec, doll.” He started creeping forward and Ford could practically see his mind racing. What on earth were they going to do? </p><p>Stan rounded the corner, his entire body tense, shoulders to his ears.</p><p>Bill stood at the end of the aisle, next to the soda machine. He clicked a soda dispenser lever with a finger and jumped in surprise. A pause. And then he pressed another soda lever. With a cackle, he pushed his arm against all the levers so the soda ran over his jacket and splattered on the floor.</p><p>“What kind of useless beverage machine is this?” Bill said, in that reedy voice of his. Ford wondered how he’d ever been able to stand it. “It doesn’t even have blood.” Bill bent down, drank from under the nozzle pouring a red punch, staining the front of Ford’s shirt pink, and then licked his lips. Ford grimaced. “Don’t you hate those lame off-brand products?” Bill continued. “Like, if you’re gonna look like blood, just <em> be blood, </em>ya know?”</p><p>Stan gaped at him, which was not going to work. They didn’t have time for hesitation! “Do something!” Ford shouted.</p><p>Of course, Stan didn’t hear him.</p><p>Slowly, Stan raised his hands. “Bill, right?”</p><p>“That’s right, Stanley.” A puddle of sticky brown spread across the floor. “I thought it was about time we had a proper chit-chat. No distractions.” He grinned.</p><p>Stanley just stared at Bill. The soda poured. “What do you want?” He was giving Bill an irritable <em> what the heck is wrong with you </em>sort of look</p><p>“Well,” Bill blew a raspberry. “I mean, in the grand scheme of things, I’d <em>love </em>a physical form and infinite power to mold the multiverse to my own image, ya know? But that’s long term. Currently, it would be great if you’d… unlock me?”</p><p>Bill lifted up his right wrist the little that he could and both Stan and Ford breathed sighs of relief. Ford had managed to lock him to the metal leg of the shelf holding up the soda machine, which he’d been attempting before his vision blacked out. Bill was stuck. He could definitely waste soda, but that was it.</p><p>Stan visibly relaxed, and a lazy smile snuck up his face. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”</p><p>“To be fair, I think everyone is an idiot!” Bill finally took his arm off the soda. He flapped the sleeve about like a wet dog and then squelched the wet fabric against the counter.</p><p>If Ford had a heart, it would have been beating incredibly hard in his chest. He crossed his arms. “There is nothing to be gained in his situation,” he managed.</p><p>Bill laughed, which must have seemed random and deranged, so business as usual. “We’ll see.”</p><p>“I’m not going to unlock you,” Stan said. “So how about you give me my brother back.”</p><p>“Hmm. Not yet.”</p><p>“We can stand here all day.”</p><p>Bill sighed dramatically. “Look, I really think we can work something out. You let me go, I let you live in the new world. Banda-bing, bada-boom. I’m going to win eventually. It’s gonna happen. In the meantime, if we make a deal, you get whatever you want. What do you want, Stanley?”</p><p>Stanley sputtered. “I-”</p><p>“Actually, I’ve got a better idea.” Bill cocked his head, and suddenly Stanley went straight and stiff. His eyes rolled back.</p><p>That could not be good.</p><p>“Bill. Bill, what are you doing?”</p><p>Bill ignored Ford because of course, he did. The insufferable, prideful, deranged-</p><p>Before Ford had a chance to get really upset, Stan breathed in and blinked rapidly. He stumbled into a rack and used it to hold himself up. An odd, fogged look crossed over his eyes along with something very, very sad. Ford didn’t think he’d seen Stanley cry since they were kids, and right now it looked like he was losing a battle against just that.</p><p>“You could do that? You could just…”</p><p>“Pop back in time! Change anything you want,” said Bill. “Throw in a few million dollars, too. I know you, Stanley. You’re not the guy who saves the world.” He shrugged. “And, hey, no judgment here. We both know what you really want.”</p><p>Stan said nothing, his arms loose by his side. The radio played a sickly sweet pop song in the background. It seemed much louder than before. It rang in the space where Stan <em>ought </em>to be laughing in Bill’s face.</p><p>A spike of panic hit Ford. “No! Stanley, don’t listen to him! Whatever he’s-” He growled in frustration. Stan’s eyes were glued on Bill. Stan couldn’t do this alone. Apparently he was <em>that- </em>No, no, now was not the time. Ford needed a plan and he needed one right now. If he could only get Stan to hear him! He needed a mouth!</p><p>Ah!</p><p>That was an interesting hypothesis.</p><p>Ford didn’t let himself think of any alternatives. This was it. He kicked his legs and waved his arms until he was vaguely right side up next to the racks of food.  In the same aisle as Stan and Bill, the little finger puppet Stan tried to steal was sitting next to the rest of the puppets, half-covered by a bag of chips. “Please, please work-”</p><p>He slipped his finger into the puppet, and to his shock, it fit around his finger and lifted into the air as it would normally. “Yes!!” Ford shouted.</p><p>“Ahhh!!” Stan shrieked, flailing away. </p><p>Oh, right. Ford whipped toward him, pointed finger raised with the bobble-headed little puppet. This was… incredibly demeaning. “Stanley, listen-”</p><p>“Thomas Edison?!”</p><p>“No!! Don’t be ridiculous!”</p><p>“... the ghost… of Thomas Edison?”</p><p>“It’s me! Stanford!!”</p><p>Stanley blinked. With wide eyes, he glanced at Bill, and then he looked back at what must appear to be a free-floating finger puppet. “There is nothing about this I understand.”</p><p>Bill made a weird, forced sound that might have been a laugh. “Big brother, here to save the day!”</p><p>Ford glared. He opened his mouth to retort, but Stanley beat him to it.</p><p>“Okay, first of all,” Stanley spat, “fifteen minutes does not count as a big brother. And second of all...” He left his hand raised in the air. “Uh…”</p><p>“Give me my body back, Bill. Stanley, whatever he said he’ll do, he’s lying. You can’t unlock him under <em> any </em>circumstance.”</p><p>Stan sputtered at the puppet. “I wasn’t going to do it!”</p><p>“You looked like you were!!”</p><p>“If that’s the only reason you dragged your butt out of the aether then you can go right back!”</p><p>“Boys, boys,” Bill flapped at them with his free wet hand. “As much as I’m <em> loving </em>all the delicious emotional trauma here, I’ve got a new plan.”</p><p>They both stilled, eyes on Bill. Once he suitably had their attention, Bill hopped on the balls of his feet. “Like I was saying, Stanley. Last chance!! You unlock me, and you get whatever you want.”</p><p>“Piss off.”</p><p>“Suit yourself!” Bill shrugged and lifted his hand. He wiggled his fingers, and Ford felt very sick. It was incredibly wrong, seeing his own body from the outside, and it usually didn’t feel this bad, but something about Bill moving <em>his </em>six fingers made him nauseous. “I’ll give you a science fact. A freebie, like they say. Did you know it takes the same amount of strength for the jaw to bite through a carrot as it does a human finger?” He tapped his pouting lip with Ford’s fingers. “Course, normally, the brain won’t let a person do that. It says, <em> oh dear, don’t do that</em>. So most people aren’t capable of biting that hard on their own finger. Science fact two: I can completely bypass that part of the brain!” His grin stretched wider, and his teeth glinted in the light.</p><p>Ford’s stomach flipped and fell to the floor. <em> Oh no… </em> He forced his breath to steady. He couldn’t sound scared. “Don’t let him out,” he whispered. “Stanley, it is <em> imperative </em>.”</p><p>Stanley was standing very still, so still, Ford glanced to make sure his eyes hadn’t rolled back into his head again. But no, his jaw was tight, his attention stuck on Ford’s fingers. This was the worse option. Stan’s hand was in his pocket</p><p>Bill dropped the playful tone completely. His eyes shined that dull, corpse-like yellow. “Let me out or I bite off his finger. I’ll start with...” He studied Ford’s hand and wiggled the pinky. “This one.”</p><p>Stanley trembled. He swallowed. “I...”</p><p>Ford wanted to scream. Instead, he forced himself to sound calm. He pushed the puppet in front of Stanley. “Listen to me! It’s okay. I can handle it. I don’t need-”</p><p>“I can’t let him-”</p><p>“Five!!”</p><p>“The world is more important than me, Stanley!”</p><p>Stanley gave the puppet a bewildered look. A realization sank through Ford, pulling him down like a net.</p><p>“Four!”</p><p>“Please, Stanley, think logically!”</p><p>Stanley pushed the puppet away from his face. He kept his gaze steady on Bill.</p><p>“Three!!” Bill giggled. He waved the hand in front of his mouth.</p><p>If Ford had a stomach, he would have puked.</p><p>“Figure it out, Ford,” Stanley spat.</p><p>“Two!!”</p><p>Stanley raced forward, key in hand. Bill stuck his finger in his mouth. Ford jumped after Stan, somersaulting through Stan’s body. “No!!” </p><p>Bill cackled.</p><p>Ford’s momentum sent him flailing into Bill. The world flicked off, then Ford opened his eyes, his real, <em> physical </em>eyes, and a wave of disorientation crashed over him. He was facing the wrong direction. At the same moment, Stanley rammed into him and sent them sprawling to the tiled floor. Sticky soda sloshed. The handcuff yanked Ford’s arm.</p><p>They both breathed hard. Ford was incredibly dizzy. In fact, if he wasn’t on the floor already, he would have fallen. As it was, Ford groaned and swallowed the impulse to throw up. Stanley was pushing his shoulder <em>very hard </em>into the floor. “Ugh,” Ford moaned, “that was not pleasant…”</p><p>Above him, Stanley lit up. “Ha! You did it! I knew you’d do it!”</p><p>What?</p><p>Ford forced his eyes to focus. He gaped. Was Stanley really that blind? What on earth was wrong with him? He shoved Stan off the best he could, voice cracking. “Are you insane! You could have ruined everything!”</p><p>“Well, I didn’t, did I!” More infuriatingly, Stanley didn’t even look upset. He just kept smiling all smug, half-heartedly blocking Ford’s kicks.</p><p>Ford didn’t even have words. He sputtered incoherently for a moment before shoving him especially hard and struggling to his feet one-handed.</p><p>“Oh, come on, I wasn’t actually going to <em>do it</em>. I knew you’d figure it out.”</p><p>Ford barked a laugh. “You knew I...” He growled. “Why can’t you do <em> anything </em>right?!”</p><p>“I already said I wasn’t gonna do it! It was a trick, dumbo. And it turned out fine!”</p><p>Ford didn’t believe him. There really wasn’t a way to explain this, was there? Ford steadied himself. His entire body was shaking. It wasn’t from fear, surely. They’d been <em>so close </em>to losing.</p><p>This was all so exhausting.</p><p>“I didn’t ‘figure it out’! He let me into my body. Bill wanted this to happen!”</p><p>Stanley wrinkled his nose. “Why would he want that?”</p><p>“He’s trying to prove something to me.” Ford scowled. “Everything is a game to Bill. We’re all chess pieces. He wanted to prove I couldn’t trust you. And lo’ and behold...” He leveled a glare at his brother and held it steady. To his surprise, Stanley glared right back. His lips curled.</p><p>“Aw, screw you. ‘Can’t trust me,’ my butt. He was going to <em>eat your fingers! </em>”</p><p>“Yes! And that’s all he could do! You saw what he did to Rico and them! That was in <em>my </em>body. Can you imagine if he had his own with all of his powers?”</p><p>Stanley shook his head. “What does it matter? He didn’t do it. I didn’t unlock the handcuffs. It’s all fine!”</p><p>“But it might not have been! You can’t take risks like that! The whole reason you’re here is to make sure Bill doesn’t get free in our world.”</p><p>Stanley scoffed. Which… was not the response Ford expected. Ford cocked his head, waiting for an explanation. But Stanley hesitated. Using the rack for support, he pulled himself off the ground with a grimace. Only now did his gaze drop. He huffed. “I don’t care about the world.”</p><p>Ford blinked. He ran the words over in his head, comparing, contrasting, evaluating. “... What? Why? But you said-”</p><p>Stanley groaned. “Holy Moses, you are <em>so irritating. </em>Just take it for what it is.” He still had the key in his hand, and before Ford could make any protest, Stan shoved him to the side and unlocked the handcuff from the metal leg.</p><p>Ford’s brain continued spinning in circles. He wasn’t used to being confused. If he didn’t care about the world, then what was he doing here? Didn’t he know they would both die if Bill controlled this world? Was it just the sentiment? After everything Ford had done, why on earth would Stanley even… And dear lord, Ford had done quite a lot, hadn’t he? Ford might have spiraled then and there, but something clattered to the floor and that was enough to distract him. They both looked up.</p><p>At the end of the aisle, the blonde teenager, who in all honesty, Ford completely forgot about, scrambled to pick up a house phone attached to a spiral phone cord. Pale-faced, she stared at them in horror.</p><p>“Shoot…” Stan muttered. And then louder, to her, “is there <em> any way </em>you don’t call the police on us?”</p><p>The girl’s mouth bobbed open and shut. “Uh-”</p><p>“That’s what I thought. Time to skedaddle, Stanford.”</p><p>They didn’t hesitate. Before the girl could properly get a hold of herself, they bolted for the doors.</p><p>“Go, go go!”</p><p>They ran to the car, and it roared to life just as Ford slammed shut the passenger door. He locked the loose handcuff around the handle of the door and they sped away just as sirens began to wail in the distance.</p><p>“Guess we’ll get gas somewhere else,” Stanley muttered.</p><p>As they boarded the freeway, the tiny town stretched into the distance. Ford craned his neck to peer behind them, expecting police cars to come racing up behind them at any moment.</p><p>For a long beat, nothing happened, and carefully, Ford relaxed. They’d gotten away in time.</p><p>Thank God for slow small-town cops…</p><p>They drove in tense silence. Ford turned back around, slumping in his seat. His jacket was soaked and the sweet smell of soda was overwhelming. He wrinkled his nose and started to take off the jacket, only to pause. Something small fell out of the front pocket into his lap. Ah, yes. Of course. He picked it up and turned the Edison puppet in his hands. It stared at him with little black eyes.</p><p>He was about to stuff it in the pocket again when Stanley let out a laugh. Ford froze, startled. He’d been caught. “Did you steal that?” Stanley said.</p><p>Ford opened his mouth to insist that <em>no</em>, he had not, but then it occurred to him he was sitting here with the unpurchased puppet. He sighed and risked a glance at Stan. Stan’s expression was unreadable, something like amused, but Ford suddenly found himself wishing he would smile.</p><p>He cleared his throat and set the little puppet up on the dashboard. It slumped to the side, and Ford thought that it was very fitting that way. “I suppose I did.”</p><p>Stanley chuckled, eyes on the road. “About time…”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you’re curious, most of this chapter was originally going to be very different, but i fell asleep thinking about the story, and dreamed it happening this way (complete with the Thomas Edison puppet and Bill pressing the soda dispensers) and I liked it much better. So you can blame my subconscious for any and all weirdness.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. In which Ford continues to have awful self-care habits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Aw man this chapter is just straight up sad hours y’all. My poor boys</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They were twenty-one and they lived on the sea. This was one of the many benefits of the little boat they’d scraped together. In their dreams, it was a tall, shining vessel with gleaming masks and enough room to house any creature Ford wished to study. As it was, the Stan O’War used to be a shipwreck before they used Ford’s grant to make it actually seaworthy. They added little bedrooms and a kitchen and a place for Ford to research and a place for Stanley to fish. They floated a few days south of any continent, and a quick jaunt through the hot wind would bring them to the beach of a previously unexplored island. At night, they kept the windows open to let the breeze and the shimmer of rolling waves rock them to sleep. They were a mere walk down the hall from each other. Near the window, the fog wet the bookshelf clamped to the wall, dampening an open book or two in a sweet mist of dew. Treasures, old and new, dotted Stan’s bedroom. It wasn’t perfect, but it was perfectly good.</p><p>Stanley Pines, world-renown treasure hunter, interviewed by many a curious broadcast company, crushed a now-empty can of pit cola and enjoyed the quiet of the morning. Behind him, his twin brother Stanford, the, according to the public, more mysterious of the pair, was busy asking a fairy sophisticated questions and writing it all down in a little notebook of his, which he planned to publish within the next few years. “Lee, come look at this!”</p><p>Stanley never went to visit his brother’s science fair experiment in high school, and the next morning, the experiment went off without a hitch. Ford was accepted into his dream school, and Stanley took all the vacation days he got to drive to visit him while he studied. Once finished, they used Stan’s savings and Ford’s research grant to push themselves offshore into the wild unknown. Everything was good and was going to stay this way forever.</p><p>Stanley tried to get up from his seat on the deck, but his body was frozen solid, like a stone. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He tried to shout at Ford, but Ford’s back was turned, busy with the fairy. Stan was getting heavier, and the deck began to crack beneath him. It couldn’t hold him! He was going to sink the whole ship! The sky darkened, illuminated by nothing but a triangular sun. Shrill laughter rang in the distance. Stan blinked, and the deck was suddenly covered in people, lying on their faces and sides, eyes glassy and lifeless. Rico, his head backward on his body, grinned at Stanley from the floor. “Who do you think you’re fooling?” Rico cackled. The deck shattered, plunging everyone into black water.</p><p>Stanley woke up with a jerk, flailing instinctively. His heart hammered. For half a moment, Stan didn’t know what was going on, and he flinched away from the <em>other person </em>sitting in the car with him. He blinked and his brother, handcuffed to the door, came into focus. Stan exhaled. Ford didn’t have his glasses on yet, and he yawned hugely, pushing his fluffy hair out of his face. He gave him a confused look but didn’t seem to have noticed Stan’s panic. Panic... he wasn’t panicking. People had nightmares sometimes. It happens! The last few days had been… a lot. It was starting to leave a generally bad taste in Stan’s mouth. </p><p>The bright vivid colors of Stan’s dream bled away, replaced by the dull greys and reds of his car. Ford’s puppet lay on its side on the dash. Outside, the road was swamped in fog. The trees along the edges of the road leered inward in jagged shadows. It still smelled like sweet soda in here. Stanley’s stomach growled.  Once it got too difficult to stay awake last night, he stopped on the side of the road.</p><p>Ford blinked owlishly. “My apologies,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”</p><p>Stan grunted. He stretched as much as he could in the car, elbows knocking against the ceiling. His back was <em>killing him</em>. Regularity sleeping in your car did not make sleeping in your car any easier. Especially sleeping in the front seat. Don’t do that.</p><p>Stan needed to stand. He needed... he needed air. He felt fragile, shaky. Scrubbing his eyes, he unlocked the door and pulled himself out onto the side of the road, where he stretched his spine and stared boredly into the horrid abyss of foggy unknown wilderness before him. The morning smelled like gasoline and asphalt and wet pine needles. He wished he had a cigarette.</p><p>Ford would probably want to stretch his legs too, but that was not going to happen- not after the gas station disaster. They were not unlocking him until they got to Gravity Falls. Hence, the drive through the night. They couldn’t be much further. Stanley wondered what would happen if he walked into the forest and kept going. He could lie down in the dirt for a while and sleep. Just stop for a bit. It was tempting, in a weird way. The whole world could use a snooze button. He didn’t want it to stop forever, but, shoot, he would like it if everything wouldn’t come so fast for once. Could the world not end for two minutes, please? He really needed to get busy so he could think about something else besides whatever the heck this was. Sheesh.</p><p>When Stanley wandered back to the car, Ford had maneuvered himself to his feet next to the door, hand still cuffed to the handle. Glasses loosely in his fingers, his left arm rested on the top of the car, and his nose was buried in the crook of it. He looked up when Stan’s crunching footsteps were close enough to hear. He gave him a tight smile. “Just another hour, I imagine.”</p><p>Stan hummed and got back into the car. Ford followed suit. The world blurred past them, a forest that seemed to extend forever. The radio whispered a soft song, and neither of them had the energy to speak. Instead, they let the song play, and then another and another. They pulled around corners, past the occasional logging truck. The sun peaked just above the mountain ridge and sent its tentative gaze toward the west. It was nearly possible, in a place like this, to imagine nothing existed beyond the confines of the vehicle, and find comfort in this.</p><p>Ford had his forehead resting on the window. He stared sightlessly ahead of them. When Stan tried not to look at him, he just found himself glancing to the right more often. His stomach was wound tight. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, Stan kept quiet and mulled over the dream, which played over and over in his mind’s eye.</p><p>Bill’s version of that dream had not ended in dead bodies all over the deck. Stan supposed the addition must be his own demented brain. Rico grinned at him from the floor. <em> Who do you think you’re fooling?  </em>Thanks, Rico. Real subtle.</p><p>This whole ‘thinking quietly’ thing was getting old.</p><p>Unfortunately, he did not want to small-talk with his twin brother. How sad was it that they’d gotten to this point… Course, they could talk about the stuff they <em>needed </em>to talk about, but Stan sure wasn’t going to bring it up. Besides, what would talking even do? He couldn’t make things go back to the way they were, and honestly, Stan doubted they’d ever really been that way. When was the last time he and Ford actually were on the same page? Age 10? Ha. Even if he <em>hadn’t </em>broken Ford’s stupid science fair project, Ford would leave him anyway. He’d been distant for years before that. Sure, maybe they would keep in touch for a few years, but then it would get too expensive, and Stan wouldn’t drive to visit as often. Ford wouldn’t come home for winter break anymore. He’d get his grant… and Stan very much doubted he would include Stanley in it. Which… fine, he had the right to do what he wanted, but, well, he didn’t have to want such a crappy thing. Apparently, Stanley was ‘too darn clingy’ or whatever. A whole host of ex-girlfriends had made that very clear. This was just how things had always been and always would be. No need to get mushy about it. They had more important things to worry about anyway.</p><p>“Here,” Ford murmured. He nodded at a small road sign which read <em> Gravity Falls</em>. Stanley took the exit.</p><p>The change past the sign was subtle, so subtle, he wouldn’t have noticed it if he wasn’t trying to occupy his mind. He turned up the radio a bit and hummed along as he drove. The sky, dreary and lethargic before, eased into bright sunlight and a shining blue sky. The trees looked greener, the colors more vibrant. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground. Stan caught a glimpse of a deer staring wide-eyed from the forest. It turned its head completely toward them, and Stan did a double-take. Did that deer have three eyes?</p><p>They rounded a bend that revealed a large valley, and another ten minutes took them through a little, pleasant enough town. Kids played at a playground and rode their bikes. There were the essentials, grocery store, police station, town hall, hospital, etc. The rest of the town seemed to be a variety of quaint mom-and-pop stores. People walked around and waved at each other.</p><p>“Seems like a nice place,” Stan noted.</p><p>“Hmm?” Ford picked his head off the window. Stan didn’t think he slept much last night. “Oh, yes, I suppose it is. I haven’t really come down here. Fiddleford always did the shopping.”</p><p>That sounded about right. “They’ve got a thrift shop!” Stan pointed. “You haven't even gone to the thrift shop?”</p><p>Ford squinted. “Why… would I?”</p><p>Stan wasn’t about to explain to Ford the Benefits of Thrifting and the incredible treasures behind the kind-of-stained exterior. He wasn’t going to get it. “‘S just… good place to get clothes. Lots of… patterns and uh… do I turn left or right here?”</p><p>“Left. My research facility is in the forest outside of town.”</p><p>His ‘ReSEaRch FaCIliTy’. Jeez Louise.</p><p>As it turned out, Stan could have just followed the ‘DO NOT TRESPASS’ signs. There was a trail of them leading up a dirt road into the forest like breadcrumbs. After the fourth sign, Stan raised an eyebrow at Ford. “You got a problem with trespassing?”</p><p>Ford shrugged. “I work with very dangerous materials, and I did not want to risk the locals being hurt if the portal, or something else, exploded.” Fair enough. </p><p>Ford wrinkled his nose. “I admit, from this point of view, it does look rather paranoid.”</p><p>“Ya think?”</p><p>“... This last month hasn’t been my most coherent. I’ve been a little on edge. Also, you-know-who sometimes possesses other people to get to me, so it was better to keep everyone <em> very </em>far away.”</p><p><em> Not me, though. </em>This was good to know. Stan hadn’t even known Bill possessing others was a possibility. “He isn’t freaking Satan, Ford.”</p><p>Ford snorted as they drove over bumps in the dirt road. “If you are not afraid of Bill Cipher, you’re a fool.”</p><p>They pulled over the hill and a large wooden house melted into view. Hewn roughly, the three-story cabin loomed like some great coffin. Barbed wire fencing surrounded the premises and the roof was dotted with satellite dishes and security cameras. The windows were dark.</p><p>Stan slowed to a gradual stop before the fence and took it in. “It’s…” He couldn’t actually think of a proper descriptor. “Intense?”</p><p>Ford leaned forward to look out the front window. He shrugged, and then something crossed his face, a brief irritation. “I’ll have to put in the gate code.”</p><p>“Not happening. You and the car door are great buddies, remember?”</p><p>“I <em> know </em>.” He chewed the inside of his lip, the gears in his brain obviously turning.</p><p>Stan wasn’t really sure why it was necessary. He pulled the car into park and cocked his head at him. “Just tell me the code. I’ll put it in.”</p><p>“Uh,” Ford cleared his throat. “I’d rather do it myself.”</p><p>He… really was just such a prick. Stan groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’m not unlocking you. I can cut through the fence with the wire cutters in my trunk, or you can tell me the code. Those are the options.”</p><p>Ford fiddled with his glasses. He took them off and wiped them on his sweater.</p><p>“Ford. Ford, you’re stalling.”</p><p>He mumbled something.</p><p>Stan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t catch that.”</p><p>Pushing his glasses up his nose, Ford glared at him. “It’s Stanley.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The code! The code is Stanley, now-”</p><p>Stanley couldn’t stop a bark of laughter. “You’ve got to be-”</p><p>“Just open the gate!”</p><p>Stanley grinned. “Your ears are red.”</p><p>Ford groaned. He rolled his eyes to the heavens. “You are insufferable.” Stan could have kept teasing him, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to push his luck. But he chuckled as he opened the door and crunched across the snow to the gate.</p><p>Shivering in the cold, Stan pulled his hoodie tighter to him. He flicked off the grey cover over the security code box and pressed his name in one button at a time. There was a brief pause, and then the lights blinked green. The gate beeped, and slowly pulled back on gears. He smirked. This little turn of events <em>did not </em>give some warmth to his chest.</p><p>Ford’s ears were still red when Stanley drove the car inside. Stanley unlocked him and held the other handcuff as they walked up the porch steps and stopped at the front door. It was locked by a keypad. Ford cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I’ll deal with this one…”</p><p>“It’s Stanley, too, huh?”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“It is.” The door opened to a shady interior. It smelled like wood and coffee. “That’s horrible security, Ford.”</p><p>Ford sighed and walked in, effectively forcing Stan to follow. Another jab died on Stan’s tongue. The… room (there was not enough furniture to determine whether it was supposed to be a living room, dining room, sitting room, or anything else but a storage unit) was lined with computers, filled with piles of gadgets, and boxes of paperwork. Dishes were stacked on any flat surface. Ford’s handwriting covered a wall, a wild scrawl that Stan was pretty sure said <em> BEWARB. </em>Everything was everywhere, with no organization whatsoever. Stan stumbled on the rumpled edge of a dull yellow, triangular rug, and caught himself on Ford’s shoulder. The light above them was busted, the exposed lightbulb nothing but a ring of teeth on the ceiling. There were no other light sources but the dusty windows. The glass from the bulb was still on the floor, nestled in the yellow rug, and it cracked when they stepped over it. Ford wove through the mess silently. Stan trailed behind him until Ford paused in the middle of it and looked around, head tilted.</p><p>“Dear me, what happened here?”</p><p>Stan raised his eyebrows. “Was it not like this before?”</p><p>“I…” Ford shook his head as if to clear it. “I am unsure. As I said, the last month -the last few months, really- have been rather a blur.”</p><p>Stan didn’t know what to do with that information. So he nudged him, and this was enough to break whatever trance Ford was in. His jaw tightened and he pushed on into a hallway. There was a stairwell to the left, and a door into what Stan was pretty sure was supposed to be a kitchen. There was a coffee maker in there, anyway. Also a sink. That room was a disaster as well.</p><p>Ford cleared his throat and picked at the threads of his jacket. His eyes didn’t meet Stan’s. “We should find a place to put me. Preferably a place I can research the protection spell.”</p><p>Stanley was really hoping this ‘protection spell’ didn’t take too long. “We could lock you to your bed. Where do you sleep?”</p><p>Ford snorted.</p><p>“You <em> have </em>a bedroom.”</p><p>“Of course,” he muttered. “Upstairs.” He led the way up the creaking stairs. On the second floor, the hallway was long and filled with doors, ending in a triangular window. Stanley wondered just why Ford had so many rooms, but before he could ask, Ford stopped in front of one of the doors and pushed it open.</p><p>Ah.</p><p>The room was very much the Stanford Stanley remembered. There was a long desk on the far wall with a large pile of papers and books, a coffee coaster, a triangular prism, and a clock. Neat, tidy, academic. The wall to the right had a large shuttered window and an orange couch. To the left, there was a door that probably led to a bathroom. There was a calendar on the wall several months off. The room was tidy enough, and Stan would guess it was the <em>sole </em>tidy room in the house. The only surprising part was a bright blue and orange carpet in the center of the room. It seemed a little gaudy for Ford’s taste.</p><p>Stan sighed. “And… you don’t have a bed. Why is this not a surprise?”</p><p>“I have a cot in the basement.” Ford shrugged. “I do not usually sleep in here.”</p><p>“Right.” Stan led him to the desk. It was fine for now. He locked the handcuff to the desk leg and then squinted at the desk. Hands catching the edge, he tried to lift it, but it was shockingly sturdy. If Stan couldn’t lift it, Ford definitely wouldn’t be able to get the cuff off. When Stan looked back at Ford, Ford had dropped into the desk chair. He stared forward at nothing and just before he fixed his expression, he looked so darn sad and tired it made Stan’s chest catch. As quickly as it was there, Ford blinked and it slipped away. He gave Stan a vaguely irritated look. “You can get off my books now.”</p><p>Stan grunted and lifted his hands in surrender. “Whatever.” He backed away. Ford’s eyes stayed on the woodgrain of the desk. “What do you need?”</p><p>“The third journal. It is buried nearby. If you take fifty steps down the trail just out the front door, there is a metal tree on the left side of the trail. At about waist height on the tree, a little door opens a compartment nearby with the journal.”</p><p>Stan felt like he should be writing this down. He snorted and walked the rest of the way to the door. “There’s no way I’m gonna find that…”</p><p>“Stanley?”</p><p>Stanley looked back, hand on the doorframe. “Yeah?”</p><p>Ford was twisted in the chair. His mouth opened. His gaze dropped to the carpet. His mouth shut again.</p><p> “Just… don’t step on the carpet. It is a very dangerous piece of equipment.”</p><p>“Then you shouldn’t have it on the floor,” Stan snapped. “I’m gonna try to find some food in this place, then I’ll get your stupid diary.” He started down the hallway. Weirdly, his throat was thick and his allergies were starting to act up. Maybe it was the ‘dangerous’ carpet.</p><p>He didn’t hear Ford’s unsteady breathing, he didn’t see his fingers tremble when he tried to pick up a pen, and he sure didn’t hear the quiet curses Ford whispered into his hands, and Stanley was worse off for it.</p><hr/><p>
  
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. In which showers are in order</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Urggg I fought with this chapter all weekend.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They ended up having to use walkie-talkies because there was no way Stanley was going to find the journal by himself. He bumbled around the forest feeling like an idiot for a good forty of the sixty minutes it took to find the journal before he gave up and told Ford there was an entire forest of trees ‘to the left of the trail’ and Ford should have made his tree less real looking. Stan’s boots were not in great condition to start out, and tromping around a snowy forest did not improve them. His hands and feet were freezing. Book in hand, he’d stomped inside and peeled off the wet boots, muttering all the while. They could probably turn the heat on in this place... Also, they’d need to actually clear a path through the mess at some point.</p><p>Stanley dropped the third journal onto Ford’s desk, startling him awake, and handed him a sandwich. Ford took both gratefully and then raised an eyebrow at the sandwich.</p><p>    “Is this…”</p><p>    “A ketchup sandwich. Yep. Brings you back, doesn’t it? You  literally have nothing else edible in your fridge.”</p><p>    “Right.” Ford took a bite. He shrugged, chewing, and opened up the third journal. “’s be’r than it should be.” He swallowed. “Do you remember-“</p><p>“Everyday of fourth  grade, I remember.” Their dad had been weirdly possessive of the sandwich meat in the fridge when they were kids. They didn’t have a lot of money. Stan understood. The food was for Dad unless they asked. He and Ford used to bring ketchup sandwiches to school. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, and he hadn’t really planned on thinking about it today. But he didn’t plan on thinking about a lot of things lately, and here they were.</p><p>    Stan sat on the arm of the couch and ate his sandwich while Ford flicked through the journal, hunched over the pages like a darned gargoyle. He was focused, and Stan very much doubted if a giant monster burst into the room right now Ford would even notice. In middle school, Ford used to get bullied often, but he was only shoved in a locker once. No one ever tried it again because Ford was so engrossed in his medieval philosophy textbook he did not notice he was in said-locker until Stan broke open the door. It wasn’t fun to push someone in a locker when they didn’t even cry about it.</p><p>    Ford would probably be at this for a while.</p><p>    Dusting off his hands, Stan stood and cracked his back. He’d try to find a shower in this maze of a house, maybe take a nap… He could use it. But as he turned to walk away, Ford sat up. “Where’re you going?”</p><p>    “The bathroom? Am I not allowed to go to the bathroom?”</p><p>    Ford’s ears went red again. They were doing that a lot today. What was his deal? “Oh, ah-” Ford cleared his throat. “Right. Of course.”</p><p>    “Did you need something or-?”</p><p>    “No! No, I was just… curious.”</p><p>    “Oookay?”  He was just being weird now. “Then… I’m gonna… go? Now?”</p><p>“Right! Right! Yes. I just… you don’t have to.”</p><p>“You want me to stay? I won’t touch your spooky stuff, if that’s what you’re-”</p><p>“No! It’s not that. I mean...” Ford shifted in his seat. </p><p>Stan raised an eyebrow, waiting. <em>  Holy Moses, just spit it out already, </em> </p><p>Ford’s shoulders slumped. “I mean, you do not have to leave, if you don’t want to. Or you can if you…” He groaned. “Look, forget it, just go to the bathroom.”</p><p>Was he trying to be nice? Stan scowled. He wasn’t really sure what to make of all that. Shaking his head, Stan left him alone. Ford preferred working by himself, and Stan didn’t care for whatever Ford was trying to get out of him.</p><p> He stomped down the hall, not angrily; stomping was Stan’s default, and found the bathroom in quick order. It was a tiny, mercifully uncluttered affair with unpainted walls. The outlets didn’t have covers. How long had Ford been living here again? This place was strange. On one hand, it was filled to the brim with Ford’s life, and on the other, it could have been anyone’s cabin in the woods. He’d never taken his blue painting tape off the baseboards, or painted the walls, for that matter.</p><p>As Stan showered, he imagined that if he chose to look around, he’d find boxes of stuff Ford never bothered to unpack. It wasn’t… well, it probably wasn’t healthy to live like that. Stan supposed he wasn’t the best person to judge. He got the feeling Ford’s cabin was a place he lived, not his home, if that made sense, and it pissed him off a little, to be honest. Ford had a place to be himself and he hadn’t bothered to peel off his painting tape. Man, if Stan had his own house, he’d cover the whole place. He’d shout from the rooftops! This was STANLEY’S HOME! Imagine owning a sink, or a shower, or a couch, and it was just his forever to do whatever he liked with it? Wild! </p><p>Stan never did get to do the whole ‘move out into your own place’ thing. He’d stayed in a bunch of homes, couch surfed a bit, mostly slept in his car, and been in plenty of hotel rooms, but he’d sure never had the opportunity to buy himself a <em> couch. </em> He just didn’t stay anywhere long enough. It probably wasn’t as cracked up as it seemed. Maybe not being delighted by things like owning a couch was the true mark of adulthood; once it became malaise, then you really were grown up.</p><p>Did that make Stan a kid still?</p><p>Stan washed the grime out of his hair and stepped out into the steamed bathroom. The warmth felt painfully good. He changed into some fresh(ish) clothes he’d swiped from a consignment store on their road trip, a white tank-top and jeans. Stan wiped the mirror with an elbow and his fogged reflection rolled its eyes. He certainly didn’t look like a kid. If he was a kid, he would have been scared of people who looked like him. There was probably a different sort of adulthood which resulted from trying not to die on the street. Whatever brand of adulthood that was, Stan figured he’d gotten that instead.</p><p>At least the swelling from the bruise on his eye had gone down. He… really needed to do something about his hair. It was getting embarrassing. Mullets were not really his mojo. His wet hair plastered his neck and shoulders. Stanley stuck his tongue out, wrinkled his nose, and grimaced in general. The last few days hadn’t suddenly made him look any better, but the shower was nice. He was clean. There was nothing a week worth of grime and a mullet could do to dampen his patented Stan Pines Charm, but… he could do better.</p><p>He rooted through the mostly empty sink drawers, not really expecting to find anything, but to his surprise, Ford did have some scissors, a razor, comb, and a little pack of apparently explosive powder. Stanley blinked at the powder. “Why do you even- you know what, I don’t want to know.”</p><p>Twenty minutes later, Stanley grinned at the mirror. He wasn’t great at giving himself haircuts, but anything was better than the mullet. He’d cut it shorter on the sides (maybe a little too short on the left), combed the top back with his fingers.</p><p>“Now that’s more like it!”</p><p>    When Ford called him back into the bedroom, the sun was nearly set, and Stan had explored most of the cabin. He hadn’t found Ford’s ‘world ending’ portal, which was a disappointment. He would have liked to take a peek at the thing. Instead, he’d come across a closet of skeletons, which he made loud ironic jokes about at Ford’s expense. Unfortunately, no one heard his witty banter. Their loss. He kicked around the living room. What was the deal with the bazillion yellow triangles decorating everything? He’d have to remember to ask Ford. It was a weird design choice; even weirder since it was apparently the only design choice Ford bothered to make. Alas, his adventure was brought to a close by the walkie-talkie at his waist. It crackled to life and told him to come upstairs. Stan complied, because what else was he supposed to do?</p><p>    “I’ve altered the spell,” said Ford the moment Stan opened the door. He pushed his glasses up his nose. It was dark in the room, the sunlight growing thin, and Ford must not have noticed. He hadn’t moved much since Stan left, though given that he was handcuffed to the desk, this wasn’t exactly incredible. “It should work, and I have most of the ingredients in my lab already.” </p><p> <em> What lab, the kitchen? </em> Stan wanted to ask. He sat on the arm of the couch as he had before, leaning forward to click on the desk lamp. The light bathed them in warm yellow and revealed just how disheveled Ford was beginning to look. They really did need to get this protection spell taken care of. At this rate, Ford was gonna start attracting flies.</p><p>    “Okay,” Stan shrugged. “Sounds good. Let’s do it.”</p><p>    “Well...” Ah yes, the inevitable ‘well.’ “There’s one ingredient missing. Unicorn hair.” Ford grimaced. “They live in a grove nearby, but they only give their hair to people who are ‘pure of heart’.”</p><p>    Unicorns. Unicorns were a real thing. Okay, cool.</p><p>    Stan grunted and chewed the inside of his cheek. “Welp, that’s out then. New plan.”</p><p>    “There isn’t another plan, Stanley! It’s unicorn hair or nothing.”</p><p>    Stan hummed. “Neither of us are ‘pure of heart.’ What kind of mushy gushy jazz is that?”</p><p>    Shrugging, Ford turned back to the journal. He flipped a page and tapped his pen rapidly on the desk. Fortunately, Stan didn’t mind waiting. He crossed his arms and picked at his teeth with his thumb.</p><p>    After a long moment, Ford suddenly sat up straight. His eyes narrowed and he adjusted his glasses. “Something is wrong. You look… different.”</p><p>    This wasn’t what Stan had expected him to say. He huffed a surprised laugh. “It’s a haircut, Ford.”</p><p>    “Hmm.”</p><p>    “What are you, a puppy? I changed my hair. It’s still me.” Stan shook his head. “What do you want to do?”</p><p>    Ford blinked, apparently shelving the issue. “I know one person who just might qualify. He’s certainly more morally minded than myself.”</p><p>    Stan raised an eyebrow. “Who?”</p><p>    Ford sighed. He rolled the pen in his fingers. “Fiddleford McGucket.”</p>
<hr/><p>    “I can’t believe you actually have friends.”</p><p>    Stan idled in his car down the street from a pleasant neighborhood home in the suburbs, headlights off, walkie-talkie in hand.</p><p>The walkie-talkie crackled to life. <em> “Har, har. Because you have so many friends.” </em> Stan could picture Ford’s eye roll.</p><p>He pressed the button. “Weirdly enough, I have had friends, Ford. Girlfriends, even!” Not currently, but that's besides the point. “Actually, I take it back, I can’t believe you have one friend.”</p><p>
  <em> “To be fair, I am mostly certain he hates me.” </em>
</p><p>“That tracks.”</p><p>
  <em> “I should be offended. When I am less tired, I will take time to be offended.” </em>
</p><p>Stan chuckled and pocketed the walkie-talkie. He unlocked the car and got out, stretching in the night air. They’d tried calling Fiddleford, but his wife answered and she told them she hadn’t seen Fiddleford in months. They’d been separated for a while now, and he was apparently still living in Gravity Falls. This was a surprise to Ford, who then called the police station and managed to get an address (Stan had no idea how he’d managed that. He’d never heard of cops just giving out addresses. What kind of police officers were they?)</p><p>But now… Stan was here. As he walked closer, his chest tightened and he paused under one of the streetlamps. What the heck did he think he was doing? He’d just waltz up to this guy with his nice house and expect him to listen? He had potted plants! People with potted plants didn’t drive off in the middle of the night with random people!</p><p>Cursing quietly, he pinched between his eyes. “This is such a bad idea…” At least it wasn't anything new. He took a deep breath and forced himself to jog the rest of the way. If he just did it quickly, he wouldn’t be able to think about it. He mashed the doorbell and rocked back. Thumbs hooked in his pant loops, Stan chewed on his lip.</p><p>The door didn’t open for a long time.</p><p>They maybe could have waited until tomorrow morning to do this. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, as they say. Finally, there was the sound of a lock unlocking. And then another lock. Another.</p><p>Another. Good gracious...</p><p>When it finally opened, a sleepy man yawned hugely at him. The man was thin and blonde, with a frazzled, nervous look, like a mouse or a squirrel. He was wearing blue pyjamas decorated with little gears. Stan didn’t think he’d ever seen a grown man wear matching pajamas. “Yes?” Said the man.</p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>It occurred to Stan at this moment that he had not thought about what to say and he probably should have done that. But before he could come up with a stellar pitch, the man pushed his hair out of his face. It took half a moment for his brain to register who he was looking at. When it did register, he yelped and cowered behind the door. “<em> STANFORD?!” </em></p><p>Darn. “Wait a minute!” Stan was hit with an odd wave of deja vu. His focus should be on the door slamming in his face, but it wasn’t. He’d somehow forgotten this part of being a twin. This always used to happen. For obvious reasons, it had been a long time since he’d been mistaken for Ford. He didn’t personally feel he even looked that much like his brother… He was so caught off guard, his tongue got caught. What a time to fumble, too.</p><p>“NO!” Fiddleford (it must be Fiddleford) practically shrieked. “I don’t want to see-”</p><p>“I’m not-”</p><p>Stan jumped forward to stop it, but he was too late, the door slammed in his face. </p><p>He cursed.</p><p>Behind him, the street lamp flickered. The crickets chirped in the potted plants. Slowly, Stan stepped back. </p><p>The door continued to stay closed.</p><p>What was he supposed to do now? He fished the walkie-talkie out of his pocket. “Jeeze, Ford, you weren’t kidding.”</p><p>There was a long silence, where there was nothing but the hiss of wind and the chirping crickets. Ford spoke.<em> “It did not go well? </em>”</p><p>“You could say that. He slammed the door before I could do anything.”</p><p>Ford cursed too.</p><p>Meanwhile, Stan backed up and narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t see anything through the windows, but the reason for this was not thick curtains. The windows had been boarded shut from the inside. Weird.</p><p>
  <em> “You could sneak in through the back door.” </em>
</p><p>Stan snorted. “And what, kidnap him?”</p><p>
  <em> “Yes?” </em>
</p><p>“... See, this is why we need him. I’m not kidnapping a man, Ford.”</p><p>
  <em> “It wouldn’t be that difficult! Just- just, you know, knock him out! You have those metal guards, don’t you?” </em>
</p><p>“They’re brass knuckles.” Stan sighed and rolled his gaze to the heavens. “While I appreciate the confidence, I still don’t think-”</p><p>There was a loud crash from inside, like something very heavy had fallen over. Someone yowled.</p><p>Fiddleford’s front door was a very normal sort of door, brown, with the peephole taped over. Importantly, it had not been re-locked. Stan’s act-first-think-later method was not working so far, but it would probably be fine. He shouldered open the door and was immediately swamped in darkness.</p><p>There was a kitchen to the left and a living room to the right, or it seemed that way. He couldn’t see much beyond vague shadows. The walls were painted with bright polka dots which glittered in the street light.</p><p>The whole thing absolutely did not put him at ease. If he got murdered right now in this stranger’s house, he was going to be very upset. Careful, Stan took a step in, leaving the door open. A sharp slice of orange light shone behind him.</p><p>“Uh… Fiddleford?” He took another step, and something crunched under his foot. He lifted his foot up and frowned. It was a doll eye. The more he looked, the more of them he saw. Doll eyes littered the floor, like little half-marbles, staring up at him in a variety of colors.</p><p>Alright, so he <em> was </em> going to get killed by this guy. Nice to know.</p><p>“I heard a crash. Are you alright?”</p><p>To his left, something scuffed. Stan moved toward the sound. In the shadows, a large mass sat on the floor. Stan came closer. As he walked, he felt along the wall, his fingers brushing over bumps and divots until his hand met a switch. He flicked it on.</p><p>The kitchen lamp in the ceiling revealed many things. It revealed a refrigerator laying on its face, tubes yanked from the wall like broken stitches. It revealed a pile of dishes and a sink full of gears, wires, and gutted machinery which nearly rivaled Ford’s kitchen mess. It even revealed the man of the hour, laying on the floor with a dazed look, his leg caught under the fridge. But most importantly, the kitchen light revealed the hundreds of exed-out eyes pasted onto every flat surface of the house. They were glued to the counters, the drawers, the ceilings and the floors. The eyes ranged in size from dinner plates to marbles. Eyeball stickers and eyeball magazine cut outs and eyeball paintings, and more.</p><p>Stan‘s mouth hung open. “Annnnd you're insane. Why am I surprised?”</p><p>Fiddleford didn’t reply, choosing instead to stutter at Stan in utter bafflement. “Do I know you?” he said.</p><p>That was probably not a good sign. Nothing about this situation was a good sign. Slowly, Stan crouched down. “Are you stuck under there?”</p><p>Fiddleford blinked at the fridge and then at Stan again. His eyes zipped up and down. “I reckon I am…”</p><p>“Here.” Stan gripped the sides of the fridge. “I’ll lift and then you can pull your leg out.”</p><p>Fiddleford nodded once, hesitantly.</p><p>“On three. One, two,” He pulled up the fridge. “Three!”</p><p>Just as quickly, Fiddleford scuttled backward until he met the wall. He stared at Stan like a skittish dog. Fiddleford’s behavior would have been concerning by itself, but the conglomeration of eyes bumped his actions up from concerning to verifiably creepy. They crouched there, fridge between them, and neither of them moved. This was going to be… interesting.</p><p>“Is that you, Ford?” Fiddleford managed, after a long silence. He scrunched up his face like he was thinking hard. “You look awful.”</p><p>Stan grunted. “Thanks. But I’m not Stanford. I’m his twin. Stanley.”</p><p>Something cleared on Fiddleford’s face. There was a clarity that he’d lacked before, and he slowly unwound his hands from around his knees. “Stan<em> ley?” </em></p><p>“Yep. That’s me.”</p><p>“He never mentioned a Stanley.” Fiddleford frowned. “I don’t recollect him mentioning a Stanley… Then again, I ain’t been myself lately.” This, for obvious reasons, was a considerable understatement.</p><p>Stan didn’t want to think about the implications of Fiddleford not knowing about him. It was yet another nail in the coffin. At this point, it was starting to just get repetitive. Stanford hated him. Message received. Sheesh.</p><p>“Did you knock over the fridge?”</p><p>Fiddleford reddened. “I must’ve. I tried ta shimmy up on top.”</p><p>Right. Of course he did. How could Stan not have guessed that from the start? “... And why were you trying to climb on top of the fridge?”</p><p>Fiddleford opened his mouth. He paused for a little bit too long. “Now that you mention it, I don’t quite recall.”</p><p>Stan needed to do some rethinking. This guy was not in his right mind. He got to his feet, still moving slowly. He didn’t want to spook him. “I think I’ll just let myself out…” He turned to go. They could find someone else who was ‘pure of heart’. There was an elementary school in town. They could get a cute kid to help. Yeah, that might work.</p><p>Before he’d taken three steps, the walkie-talkie crackled to life.</p><p>
  <em> “Stan, what’s going on? Did you find a back door?” </em>
</p><p>At his voice, Fiddleford’s head whipped up. “Is that Stanford?”</p><p>Gosh, they really should have planned this better. Stan lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Yep.” And then to Ford. “We’re gonna need a new plan, your buddy is bonkers.” He glanced at Fiddleford. “No offense.”</p><p>“Oh, none taken!” As he got to his feet, Fiddleford looked around the room. His frown deepened, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He spoke softly, more to himself than to Stan. “What the jiffy lube happened to my house?”</p><p>
  <em> “Negative, Stanley. We need-“ </em>
</p><p>Stan sighed and twisted down the volume. “Blah, blah, blah… he’s a real piece of work, huh?”</p><p>Fiddleford hadn’t relaxed. He cowered in the corner, quivering, but he smiled a little at Stan’s words. He gulped. “That’s one way to put it.”</p><p>Stan could just barely hear Ford’s furious shouting, wordless and incomprehensible at this volume. The walkie-talkie vibrated in his hand. Stan gave the man another look over.</p><p>“Are you… uh… okay?”</p><p>“Not really, no,” Fiddleford said with a smile. “You’re actually Stanford’s brother?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Fiddleford shivered. “Well, what the dilly dang is going on? What are you doing here?”</p><p>“It’s, uh, it’s complicated. But we need your help. We have to find someone who is ‘pure of heart’ to help get some unicorn hair for a… magic spell to help us stop the end of the world, and Ford doesn’t know anyone else.” It sounded even more ridiculous when he said it out loud.</p><p>Fiddleford blinked, eyes narrowing. “... Unicorns.”</p><p>“It’s- you know what, forget it. I wouldn’t believe me either.”</p><p>“No, I believe you. It’s just… I must have…” He rubbed his temples. “He was right. I shoulda never…” He trailed off into nothing, leaving Stan with no idea what he was getting at. A wash of fear crossed over him, and his face went slack. “Dear me, I don’t even remember why I did it…” He shook himself and the haunted look passed. “It’s good you came here, Stanford. I wasn’t thinking much at all.”</p><p>Stan had to agree. “Stanley.”</p><p>“Oh, right. ‘pologies.” He gave Stanley his first clear-headed look. “Golly, you really look like him. It’s boggling my mind.”</p><p>Stan shrugged. What was he supposed to say? Thank you? “So… will you do it?”</p><p>Fiddleford wrinkled his nose. He took a hesitant step out of the corner. “I ain’t know how pure of heart I am, but I reckon I can <em> try </em>.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Would be easier to figure if I remembered what I was trying to forget.”</p><p>“Ford said you two had some kind of fight.”</p><p>Fiddleford nodded. “He was working on a project, and it got strange. Ford was being...” He squinted. “Not himself?”</p><p>Stan snorted. “Being possessed does that to a person.”</p><p>The fear was back again, bristling under Fiddleford’s skin. “I don’t know ‘bout that.”</p><p>And he didn’t need to. Not now anyway. Stan (attempted) to look reassuring. “You don’t gotta be part of anything like that. Talk to a unicorn, and you don’t have to hear from either of us again.”</p><p>For a long moment, it looked like Fiddleford was going to refuse, but then he took a deep breath and nodded. “Lemme get dressed.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. In which a spider's home is grossly invaded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>plot middles are going to actually kill me. it's like pulling teeth. We're gonna make it through this lol, but only because I am incredibly excited about the climax.<br/>That said!! I have some fan art to link because people are so so so so cool and did art for this story! (spoiler alert: they are so dang good)<br/>https://littleoptimistme.tumblr.com/post/628677217626554368/sealbatross-doodles-for-littleoptimistme-s<br/>https://sealbatross.tumblr.com/post/628760298544857088/also-another-quick-doodle-for-littleoptimistme-s<br/>https://littleoptimistme.tumblr.com/post/628569762337865728/heres-some-fanart-i-drew-for-a-fic-ive-really</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He fell asleep with his head against the dusty books. Ford was still handcuffed to his desk, and the irony did not escape him. His dreams were unsettling, not quite nightmares,  but certainly not restful. They left him with a bad taste in his mouth and a vague sense of ill-ease. The sound of sloshing snow and wet gravel was a welcome reprieve. Yellow lights eased past the window, and Ford yawned. In the glow of the headlights, he could see Stanley kick open the car door. He spoke animatedly to the other person in the vehicle, waving his hands, voice muffled, but just audible through the glass. Within moments, the person in question poked his head out. Fiddleford’s shoulders were hunched, more than Ford recalled, and he’d let his hair grow. He wiped his glasses on his shirt as he darted behind Stan. They left muddy footprints on the porch steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford wished he could run downstairs and meet them. There was something about having to wait for them to come to find him that made him queasy. Instead, he fumbled with the books on the desk, shut them tight, and shuffled the pages he’d started to take notes on. He could hear them now, walking through the houses. Their voices drifted beneath the closed door of his bedroom. The sound was clouded and soft.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>… he didn’t know either</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>… well, the lab…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where is that anyway?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>…behind book...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a click and shuffle, a noise Ford had heard countless times.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>… I can’t believe… paranoid… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford rolled his eyes. That was hardly fair. Paranoia wasn’t paranoia if there really was something out to get you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They took their sweet time getting to Ford’s room, and Ford was starting to think it was probably on purpose. When the door opened, Stanley and Fiddleford were silhouetted in the light of the hallway. Ford's stomach flipped. He hadn’t planned on being nervous. It hadn’t even occurred to him. But Ford hadn’t talked to Fiddleford since he first ran off, and he probably should have. He should have called him. He should have apologized. Now, it had been too long, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Stanley did not seem to be aware of Ford’s problem. He stepped into the room and edged around the blue carpet. “Again, Ford, with the light.” He flicked on the desk lamp. “freakin' vampire... ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford blinked. He’d been sitting in the dark. Again, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be honest, Ford hadn’t really thought about what Fiddleford would do after he left. He was out of sight, out of mind. At the time, Ford had been working up the courage to confront Bill. He'd assumed Fiddleford went back to California with his wife and kid and was getting picked up by some big-name tech industry and pioneering his coding program. All was well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything was very far from well. This was bad news. Fiddleford had lost weight. His face was gaunt and his gaze foggy. His fingers shook as he wiped his glasses once more with the hem of his shirt.  Ford could hardly believe it. In fact, he didn’t want to. Perhaps it was the lighting. Perhaps he was reading more into it than he ought to. It was the middle of the night, after all. No one looked great at 2 AM.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford cleared his throat. “Hello, McGucket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford stood static, glasses stopped in the fabric of his dress shirt. He stared like he expected Ford to… what, run at him? It was disturbing, and a creeping suspicion he’d very much like to not address lurked in the back of Ford’s mind. He could feel Stan’s gaze. He had questions that he wasn’t asking. Ford really wished he wasn’t handcuffed to a desk right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford crossed his arms, still halfway through the door, and the fear faded, replaced by a deep irritation. “You have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>twin</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ho, jeez.” Stanley cleared his throat. “I, uh, I’ll just let you two-” He edged back toward the door. Was he leaving? Why was he leaving! Ford couldn’t talk to him by himself!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must have told you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Good golly, I went to your house for winter break! How could no one talk about this? Is he a clone? If he’s a clone, I’d rather you just say so outright!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley gave Ford a look that said </span>
  <em>
    <span>good luck with that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He squeezed past Fiddleford and patted him once, hard, on the back. “Family sucks. Good luck!” And then he abandoned Ford, the traitor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford didn’t move, his face unreadable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford swallowed. “He’s not a clone. It’s… complicated. Stanley had a falling out with my father during high school and had to leave. No one talked about him once he was gone.” It was interesting, explaining it to someone outside of his family. He knew most people didn’t have family situations like theirs, but the utter shock and disgust on Fiddleford’s face still seemed a bit much. It was weirdly embarrassing, talking about this. Stanley was practically an adult at the time. It wasn’t that big of a deal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand and put his glasses back on. “But he’s your… okay, fine. I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gosh, if Ford could melt through the floor, he would. He settled for glaring at the blue carpet. Another dry swallow. “I believe I owe you an apology.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford snorted. How he found humor in the situation was beyond Ford. “I reckon you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were right about the portal, and I should have listened to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He expected Fiddleford to soften a little at this, maybe to come further into the room. Instead, Fiddleford stared at him blankly. He looked right through Ford and into the wall behind him. He took off his glasses again and started cleaning them. There was no reason he should do so <em>again.</em> He pulled a little further into himself like he was trying to curl into a ball then and there. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I suppose I musta had good advice, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford frowned. None of this was landing right. “Well, you did deliver a very ominous prophecy... Fidds, are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm?” Fiddleford dropped his glasses and fumbled for them on the carpet. “Not exactly.” He offered no further explanation, instead straightening and pushing the glasses up his nose. “Stanley said we’ll get the unicorn hair tomorrow. I ‘pose I’ll sleep in my old room…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was it. Ford tried to stand, only to drop down again. Stupid handcuff. “You never had a room. You slept on the couch in the living room. You wouldn’t let me give you one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford grimaced. “Right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There wasn’t any point belating it. “You used the memory gun on yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford shuffled. “Well, I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>told you </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was dangerous! The gnome we tested it on-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not like I recollect that! I-I, I just, it’s just easier and ya never got to worry ‘bout those thoughts you don’t wanna think. And- and-” He ran his shaking hands through his hair, making it stand in uneven peaks. “You don’t understand, Ford- I knew you’d be upset, but it’s not that bad! Honestly!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that bad!” Ford threw his hand up. “Look at yourself! When is the last time you’ve even showered?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford wrapped his arms around himself and stuck out his lip. “I don’t remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Perfect. Sure, it’s ‘not that bad’!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continued to glower. “How about yourself, then, huh? You’re chained to a desk! When’s the last time </span>
  <em>
    <span>you-</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are not talking about me right now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford kicked the leg of the couch without any heat, apparently so that he didn’t have to look at Ford. “Whatever I was trying to forget, it had to be awful, so I don’t see why I’m not better off not knowing about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The funny thing was, Ford couldn’t disagree. The logic was sound. But it didn’t make it okay. He couldn’t quite put into words </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but this didn’t change that reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t remember the portal at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford squinted. “It was a portal? Why the heck would I be scared of a portal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford had never been quite so scared as he was pulling on the rope connected to Fiddleford’s foot, the room lit by a mass of blue light which moments before caused him so much excitement. It smelled like burning hair. Heat poured off the machine. It wasn’t ready for a person to go through. It was possible Fiddleford was dead already. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh gosh, he was going to have to call the police. What was he going to do? He’d have to tell his wife. </span>
  </em>
  <span>An entire novel</span>
  <span> ran through his head in the half a second before he pulled Fiddleford down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got nightmares sometimes about yanking Fiddleford’s foot, and that foot being the only thing he got. Ford suddenly did not want Fiddleford to remember why he was scared of a portal. He felt sick. “Where is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford frowned. “Where’s what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The memory gun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford went white. “I don’t have it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t lie to me, Fidds!” Ford’s chest was tight. He couldn’t let him keep doing this to himself. “You have to stop. I need you to stop!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why does it even matter? It ain’t none of your business!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t let you throw your life away!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford laughed at this, a laugh like Stanley’s. It was a sharp, wet, laugh. He was trembling. “I shouldn’t have come back here. It’s always about you, Stanford. I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You want to be the flipping hero. You don’t care about what I do, you just don’t want it to be your fault!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford’s jaw clenched. “That’s not true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to fight with you about it.” Fiddleford hugged himself. He scrubbed his face with his hands, and when he looked up, he seemed even more tired than before. “I’m going to bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ford wasn’t going to let him just walk away like that. He had a plan, and it needed to happen </span>
  <span>before Fiddleford stepped off the carpet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swiped his foot on the edge of the carpet near the desk, and suddenly, Ford was standing across the room. He stumbled and caught himself against the wall and decided that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was a horrible friend for doing this. It was hardly reassuring to note Fiddleford did not physically feel much worse than Ford himself did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford straightened and stepped off the carpet. He adjusted the collar on Fiddleford’s shirt. He needed to move quickly. At the desk, his own body glared at him, hunched in the glow of the desk lamp. It was, unfortunately, not all that unusual a situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Typical,” Fiddleford said, through Ford’s mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford rooted through the deep pockets in Fiddleford’s coat, and it did not take long for his fingers to close around the memory gun. He was doing the right thing here. Even if… well, the important thing was that it was the right thing. He pulled the gun out of Fiddleford’s pocket and held it up in the light. The machine gleamed, just as intriguing and shiny as it was months ago. He walked across the room and set the memory gun on the desk. Then, as Fiddleford reached for it, he rubbed his feet on the carpet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantly, he was seated at the desk again, and his fingers closed around the gun. He snatched it up and held it close to his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford glared down at him. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled to find words through obvious fury. He settled on throwing his hands in the air with an inarticulate growl of frustration. He stormed to the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky </span>
  </em>
  <span>I actually like your brother!” He slammed the door shut, and he might as well have slapped Ford in the face. His voice continued, muffled through the door. <em>Also, I like the world not endin'!</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>All in all, the conversation went just about as bad as Ford thought it would. He clicked off the lamplight and tucked the memory gun into the desk drawer. His body ached.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They never appreciate your efforts, do they? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bill said, from a crevice deep in Ford’s mind. He was listening all the time, and sometimes Ford nearly forgot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The curse of genius.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford sighed into his arms. “I’m not so sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s like I always said, Sixer. You don’t need to surround yourself with people who pull you down like this. I appreciate the things you do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford didn’t have the energy to argue with Bill. He also didn’t have the energy to meditate and drown out his voice. There really was only one thing to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just focus on the Work, Sixer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me what to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, despite his words, Ford flicked the lamp on and opened his journals once more. Stan would get the unicorn hair tomorrow and then Ford would be free. He’d just worry about these journal entries instead for a little while.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Stanley figured Fiddleford’s conversation with Ford did not go well. In fact, he would have been shocked if it did. At least Ford treated </span>
  <span>everyone </span>
  <span>awful. That was something, wasn’t it? </span>
  <span>Stanley didn’t bother trying to talk to Ford last night. He found Fiddleford cussing up a storm as he paced up and down the hallway. Stanley was about to do a complete 180 on the stairs, but Fiddleford caught him, and, in a shockingly calm voice, he asked where he might find the spare blankets. Southern people were scary like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At sunrise, Stan was up, though he couldn’t have said why. He wasn’t used to getting a solid night’s sleep, he supposed, and he honestly didn’t need more than six hours at the most. </span>
  <span>Now, it was that cool sort of quiet that only happens early in the morning, and there were even freaking birds chittering around and generally being all joyful outside. Sue him, it was nice! He scrounged around the kitchen cupboards for food and came up with a dusty box of chocolate cocoa puffs and a single spider who nearly gave him a heart attack. This was less because it was a spider, and more because said-spider glared and told him in no uncertain terms to </span>
  <em>
    <span>please knock next time</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If the cereal had animal droppings in it, he could not tell and he preferred to just pretend he hadn’t had that thought. He poured himself a bowl, realized there was no milk, and wondered if Ford had a hidden pantry with something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything,</span>
  </em>
  <span> else to eat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bowl of dry cereal in hand, Stan padded out of the kitchen, past Fiddleford, who blinked blearily at him from a couch formerly buried in boxes and gutted machinery (Ford </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a couch!) and went up the stairs. He’d seen a storage room or two. Maybe one of those had food? He opened one such closet, and a giant pair of antlers clattered to the floor, followed by a divulge of basketballs and a tube of toothpaste. Why did Ford have so much weird crap in his house? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looking for something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan startled and glanced down the hall. Fiddleford’s voice was low, probably so that Ford didn’t hear. Fiddleford peered around the corner, still partly on the stairs, and yawned hugely, squinting sans-glasses at Stan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan was still holding the bowl of cereal in his hands. Was that weird? He felt like it was weird. Then again, who exactly was he trying to impress here? This was the guy with the house of flipping horrors. Mr. Eyeball City. Dr. Climbed-on-a-fridge. “Uhh, yeah. Trying to find a pantry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford’s eyes brightened and he shuffled down the hall. “I think…” He stopped at a doorway, opened it, and peered in. “Not this one.” He tried another door. “Coulda swore…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the third door, Fiddleford still hadn’t found what he was looking for, but he walked into the third room anyway, eyes brightening. “So this is where that ended up!” he said from inside. Stan followed him in. The room was dusty, crammed with more random junk, boxes and boxes of files mostly. A single shaft of light pierced the shadows. Fiddleford grabbed the edge of a white sheet and whipped it off, sending a cloud of dust into the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan coughed, trying in vain to cover his cereal with his hands. “A printer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, a copier,” which was a weird thing to say, but okay. Stan considered Fiddleford, who messed with the buttons and gave a delighted little hop when it whirled to life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan set down his cereal and stepped forward. “What’s up with you huh? I thought you said you didn’t remember anything.” Fiddleford gave a halting, half-explanation in the car last night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford didn’t stop with whatever he was doing to the machine. “I invented a machine which erases </span>
  <em>
    <span>specific </span>
  </em>
  <span>memories. I ain’t sure what I specified, since I done forgot it, so it’s a toss-up what I remember. Say you wanna get rid of apples. Poof! Apples are gone. But does that mean you forget Thanksgiving too because you ate apple pie? I ain’t sure yet, to be honest. Guess I didn’t erase the copier!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A memory-erasing machine. Color him impressed. Honestly, Stan wouldn’t mind giving the thingamajig a whirl himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford frowned at the machine and licked it lightly, humming to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other hand… Maybe not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan opened the machine lid. He wasn’t sure what had Fiddleford so excited, but he could play along. “Watch this, Fidds, can I call you Fidds? I used to do this at the copier at school. You ever do this?” He pressed his face against the copier, nose wrinkled. The light passed beneath the glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh dear,” Fiddleford said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan straightened and grinned at him. “Watch, watch, this is gonna be hilari- what? Why are you looking like…” The page printed out the back of the printer and fell, rocking in the air. Fiddleford stared at the page and at Stan’s silly face with mild concern. This wasn’t great because, as far as Stan knew, Fiddleford did not react correctly to most things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It got really weird really fast, and at this point, Stan shouldn’t be surprised. The color on the page rippled, and before their eyes, the image blinked, and then a </span>
  <em>
    <span>person</span>
  </em>
  <span> climbed up out of the paper, first his head, then an arm, and then he pulled his legs up out of the paper. The whole process was accompanied by the sound of crumpled paper, and it was... very uncomfy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan looked at </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan,</span>
  </em>
  <span> who stared up in equal shock and a little bit of disgust. He was an exact copy of Stan, all the way down to the stain at the collar of his t-shirt. The only differences were slightly desaturated colors. He was paler, his hair greyer. Looking at a clone was different from looking at Ford, who Stan could distinguish easily. This was distinctly… uncanny. Wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“Holy Moses,” </b>
  <span>They said in unison. Stan turned to Fiddleford, who chewed his lip thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Must be running out of ink,” Fiddleford said like this was something helpful to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would you make something like this?” Stan managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was Ford’s idea. He was interested in cloning himself for a bit there… obsessed, more like. But it didn’t take once we tried it out. The clone ‘felt wrong’.” Fiddleford’s frown deepened, and he gave Stan another look. “Actually, thinking about it now…” He shook his head. “Aw, nevermind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Stan crouched down and peered into the clone’s eyes. “Is he alive?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan 2.0 glared at him with equal criticism, but then he split into a crooked grin. “Ha! Physically? Maybe 80 percent. The usual, ya know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan blinked and then snickered. He hooked a thumb at him. “Ha! This guy’s a racket! I always thought I was funny!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your sense of humor is typically tuned for yourself, so it makes sense you’d find him funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan stood, and the clone did as well. “I feel like that was a round-about way of saying you don’t think we’re funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford stuttered, his face growing red. “I- I haven't been ‘round ya’ll long enough to tell!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh-huh.” Stan rolled his eyes. “So he says.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So he says,” repeated Stan 2.0</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They held their expression for a good long moment before breaking into a grin. Stan patted Fiddleford’s shoulder. “Ey, don’t sweat it, Fidds. We’re an acquired taste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Like anchovies!" Stan 2.0 said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well." Stan opened his mouth to protest, and then reconsidered. "I... guess."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford stumbled when Stan ‘patted’ him, but he granted Stan a brief smile. “Ah, ah, well, that’s… ha. Haha!” He was so awkward Stan couldn’t not like him. It was nice to talk to someone who didn’t have deep-seated issues, outside of the obvious. Fiddleford was easy to mess with, too. It took </span>
  <em>
    <span>planning</span>
  </em>
  <span> to prank Ford. It was a whole war effort. Stan was pretty sure he could tell Fiddleford he had something on his shirt, and the guy would actually believe him. It was some kind of miracle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Ford hadn’t chosen this moment to make a very loud bang from the other room, Stanley might have forgotten today’s mission for a good while longer and instead spent a large portion of the day telling jokes with his paper clone and trying to see how flustered they could get Fiddleford. As it was, Ford had resorted to throwing books at the wall to get their attention. Sat downstairs on the counter where he left it last night, Stanley’s walkie-talkie had been complaining for quite a time now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Stan picked his bowl of cereal backup and started toward the door. “His majesty calls.” They needed to get the dang unicorn hair anyway. They shut the door behind them and started toward Ford’s room. The thumps continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>coming</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Stan shouted. “... get your panties in a twist…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next thirty minutes were a flurry of activity as Fiddleford and Stanley prepared for the day. Ford laid out detailed instructions on where to find unicorns, and how to find their secret hideout in their grove. Fiddleford had declined to listen in to the conversation and instead volunteered himself to gather more weapons than they would ever possibly need. When Stan met him at the door, Fiddleford was holding a bazooka, or rather the bazooka was holding Fiddleford. They were about the same height.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The forest is a terrifying place, Stanley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a forty-minute hike?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The brain loses cognitive function after three minutes without oxygen. Forty minutes is more than enough time for our hides to get well and skinned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upstairs, Stan 2.0 stared at the door, his shoulder lit by the stripe of sunlight. He grunted at the locked door, tried the handle, and looked around the cramped file room. “Welp.” He scratched his head. “I guess I live here now?” The silence gave him no response, as silence is known to do. "This is probably fine.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yes, this is the calm before the storm, ya'll. appreciate it while it lasts. they sure dont ;)<br/>thanks for reading, everyone. I really appreciate it so much, honestly. Oh! And for the tips about inserting images! I'm going to edit in drawings I've made for previous chapters into the chapters they belong in, so if you're curious, click back to see them ;) (9/15/2020)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. In which unicorns think they have the authority to give advice for some reason</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warning for blood at the end!<br/>Also, here's some fan art for last (I think. it might be the one before that, I need to look back at my chapters) chapter by sealbatross! :')<br/>https://sealbatross.tumblr.com/post/629395562541760512/paraphrased-a-line-from-littleoptimistmes-fic</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“My name is Celestabellebethabelle...<em> ” </em></p><p>“Annnnnd I’m out.”</p><p>Stanley liked to think he was a man who knew his limits. He’d been to jail in South America. He’d been beaten and stabbed. He had his fingernails torn off that one time. He’d gone weeks without food and longer without a shower. He could handle all of that. A rainbow-haired unicorn named <em> Celestabellebethabelle </em> was, without a doubt, his limit. He did not deserve this. No human on planet earth deserved this. It was a living nightmare. His eyes, his eyes were <em> bleeding. The horror! It was beyond comprehension. </em></p><p>Fiddleford, a holy saint, did not keel over on the spot. He deserved to shave the thing bald.</p><p>“Good luck, Fiddlesticks.”</p><p>They stood in a magical clearing that popped up out of the ground behind stone walls all magical and dramatic. There was a harp playing somewhere, and the sun shined through the trees, sparkling across the water from a gurgling stream. The sun melted across the clearing in that perfect honey-smooth way just before sunset, casting everything in a hazy, dream-like glaze. It smelled too sweet. It made him think of bubblegum or maybe grape flavoring? Licorice? Something like that. The unicorn lounged in the center of the clearing like a centerpiece jewel. Tossing rainbow locks over (her?) shoulder, the unicorn blinked long lashes in their direction. It would have been fine if she wasn’t literally a horse. Given that she was a horse<em> , </em> the whole thing made Stan incredibly uncomfortable. This whole place made him feel not great. He cleared his throat and took several steps back, tripping slightly. If he had any doubts left about the weird stuff in Gravity Falls, they were now sufficiently dashed. Ford could say that Bigfoot lived down the road, and Stan would have no reason not to believe him. Even as he stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, a tiny winged woman flew over his shoulder and gave him a nasty look. This place was… insane.</p><p>Fiddleford blanched when Stan backed up, eyes wide like he was trying to tell Stan something, which certainly, he was. Stan flashed his teeth in a sort of smile. The pixie dove for his hair, and he swiped at her. “What’s your deal?” he snapped at the thing.</p><p>The pixie let loose a torrent of shrieky curse words so vulgar Stan missed the first part of Fiddleford’s words to the unicorn.</p><p>“... your hair.”</p><p>“Only the <em> purest </em> of Heart can acquire a Lock of a Unicorn’s Hair!” said Celeth- celetha- the unicorn. The unicorn’s mouth wasn’t moving, but her horn glowed pink. How was she talking? Did she have some kind of psychic powers? Huh. Maybe that’s why they needed her hair. He probably should have asked about that. On the other hand, that would have prompted one of Ford’s Explanations.</p><p>The pixie started in on another rant Stan couldn’t really understand but he figured was derogatory in nature.</p><p>“Well, you can test me,” said Fiddleford. He picked at the collar of his shirt.</p><p>The unicorn got to her hooves and pranced toward Fiddleford. Once she stood before him, she lowered her horn and pointed it directly at his chest. To Fiddleford’s credit, he didn’t flinch, eyes steady on her. The horn blinked pink for a few seconds. She could stab him through in that position, probably before Stan could even move. If she stayed like that much longer, Stan might have to intervene.</p><p>“What’s the holdup? His goody-goody card decline or what?”</p><p> The unicorn’s eyes flashed to Stan with something that almost looked like irritation. She reared, kicking her hooves in the air. Fiddleford jumped back. Great tears welling in her eyes, the unicorn pranced (there is not another word to describe it) back to her spot under the tree, just to the left of the spring. “You are Not <em> Pure of Heart </em>! Come back when you are Worthy of a Unicorn’s hair!”</p><p>Fiddleford's mouth dropped open. He turned to Stan.</p><p> Stan gave him a half-hearted shrug. </p><p>“I <em> did </em>burn that city down that one time,” said Fiddleford. “Now that I think ‘bout it.” He walked to the gate and chewed the inside of his lip. “In fact, I’m a wanted man in Alabama...”</p><p>“Loving how you completely did not mention that until now.”</p><p>“... just remembered.”</p><p>“Perfect.” Stan crossed his arms, and they both looked out over the clearing from their position at the gate. The unicorn’s eyes were closed. She hummed some deep meditative chant.</p><p>Stan glanced at Fiddleford. “<em>Arson</em>? Really?”</p><p>“I don’t have to answer that.”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>“What do we do now?" Fiddleford sighed. "I suppose we could retro-engineer a replacement, but that’ll take time, and I get the feeling the handcuff situation ain’t gonna hold up forever.”</p><p>Snorting, Stan raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”</p><p>“But she said-”</p><p>“Fiddlestick-”</p><p>“It-it’s Fiddleford.”</p><p>“Fidd, fiddle- it’s like a freaking tongue-twister, that’s what. I’m gonna get that hair.”</p><p>Fiddleford cocked his head and gave Stan the look he deserved.</p><p>The pixie buzzed above their heads.</p><p>Stan looked over the rolling grass hills, at the enclosed walls of stone around the clearing. Fiddleford was considering the unicorn. Stan kept his voice low, for obvious reasons.</p><p>“Didn’t bring that bazooka for nothin’, huh?”</p><p>Fiddleford shrugged. “I ain’t gonna kill a unicorn,” he said.</p><p>“Sheesh, we don’t have to go that far.”</p><p>Fiddleford shook his head, still looking at the unicorn. His eyes narrowed. “... What’re you thinking?”</p><p>Apparently, that was all the convincing Fiddleford needed. Stan grinned.</p><p>They ended up politely waving goodbye.</p><p>Ten minutes later, they returned to blow up the spring.</p><p>Amid a spray of dirt, Stan darted past Fiddleford and his bazooka. Fiddleford fired it again, cackling, and Stan ducked. He ran toward the unicorn, ears ringing. That thing was <em> loud. </em> “Quick! He’s gone mad! Get out of here!”</p><p>The unicorn scrambled up, neighing shrilly. Stan pushed her away from Fiddleford’s onslaught. </p><p>“DIE FOUL, HORNED BEAST!” Fiddleford shouted. Another laugh. "BASTARD RHINO!" He aimed the bazooka at a tree, and suddenly a shadow crossed over Stan’s head. He managed to catch a flash of the weeping willow sailing through the air, the sun sparkling behind it as it flew like a discarded ragdoll, its limbs flailing.</p><p>“GO! Run!” Stan shoved the unicorn once more, and finally, the creature registered what Stan was trying to do. Her nostrils flared. “I do not <em> Run!”  </em></p><p>Stan wasn’t expecting this, but maybe he should have. Confused, he shoved the unicorn again. “Then gallop or whatever! Let’s go!” This finally snapped the unicorn out of her shock.</p><p>She took off, which was the main kink in this plan, but luckily, her technicolored mane made it easy to track her.</p><p>The grove was much deeper than it ought to have been. The rear wall should have been just a dozen feet or so through the trees, but as Stan kept running, it was clear the grove was not going to end in a wall anytime soon. Over grassy hills and past picturesque ponds, Stan raced after the unicorn until Fiddleford’s booming weapon was a mere rumble in the background.</p><p>It didn’t take long for Stan to run out of breath. He stumbled, slowed, and stopped against an aspen tree, gasping for breath. “Son of a gun… ow, cramp.. this was… bad plan…” He really needed to work out more. He used to be a freaking football team, for goodness sake.</p><p> On top of his hurting <em> everything </em>, when Stan looked up, aspens and willows surrounded him, stretching into infinity. The unicorn was nowhere to be found. “Well.” He straightened and brushed some of the dirt out of his hair. “Now what.”</p><p>He was about to turn the way he’d come and hope for the best when a shimmer of color caught his eye. He pulled his knife out of his pocket, where he’d been keeping it just in case. “Not any closer! I’m warning ya!”</p><p>Birds sang from somewhere in the trees above him, and that awful harp music only seemed louder out here.</p><p>“Hey, chill out, bro,” said a voice.</p><p>A blue unicorn stepped out of the brush, followed by half a dozen others. They all looked at Stan with piqued interest. “We’re cool!”</p><p>Stan hesitated, knife up. “Uhhh… any of you guys seen Celethe, errrr, the rainbow unicorn?”</p><p>The blue unicorn huffed. The unicorns all exchanged disgruntled looks.</p><p>“What… what is that supposed to mean?” He probably should put the knife down. When was it a good idea to put the knife down? He’d left it up too long, and now it was awkward.</p><p>“Let me guess,” said the blue unicorn. “She’s pulling that whole ‘Pure of Heart’ scam again?”</p><p>“Scam? Ha! I knew it! I thought I was just being paranoid!”</p><p>“Naw, she’s a real piece of work, dude. You need some hair?”</p><p>Stan blinked.</p><p>Okay, he was just going to put the knife down now. He dropped his arm to his side. “Uh, I mean, yeah. My brother is possessed by a demon and we’re trying to destroy this- It’s a long story.”</p><p>Blue cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “A demon… It wouldn’t happen to be a yellow triangle, would it?”</p><p>Stan blinked. </p><p>It clicked suddenly.</p><p>“... thought it was a design choice,” he muttered, “Yeah! That sounds right. He’s trying to destroy the world.”</p><p>Blue sighed and the other unicorns shook their heads, neighing mournfully. “How rude. Here.” Blue stepped forward. “You swear you’re a chill dude?”</p><p>“... I, uh, I mean, I’m not lying to you. It’s a weird experience for me, actually.” That wasn’t what he should have said, and Stan bit his lip.</p><p>However, Blue considered his response and then closed the distance between them. He flipped his bright mane over his shoulder toward Stan. “Go ahead. I’ve been thinking about getting a haircut anyway. Try not to screw up my layers.”</p><p>"Just like that?"</p><p>"Sure thing!"</p><p>"... This isn't one of those I-have-to-give-you-my-first-born things?"</p><p>"We're unicorns, bro, not faeries."</p><p>Stan stood frozen for a moment, shocked, before fumbling for his knife. He took hold of a handful and sliced off a long lock in the middle. The hair was so soft he almost couldn't feel it. It was like holding heavy air. “There. Can’t even see it!” He smoothed down the very short hairs now sticking up in the center of the unicorn’s mane. It did not look great. “Looks great! Uh, thanks, I guess!”</p><p>“You’re welcome, man! Anything to get on Celestabellebethabelle's nerves. She thinks she’s ‘special’ because she’s more than one color.”</p><p>“Ugh.”</p><p>“You don’t know half of it. She’s always trying to lecture us, tell us how to live our lives.” The other unicorns murmured in agreement. “Like, she tries to make us go on quests for her! But like, where was she when <em>we</em> needed a hero to get Gatorade from the gas station? That’s not how quest etiquette goes!”</p><p>“That… sucks.”</p><p>Blue sighed. “With people like that, you just have to let go and let live. At a certain point, you realize they just aren’t going to change. It’s like that story with the frog and the scorpion. You know the one?”</p><p>“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“You’ve got to move on, for your own sanity, ya know?”</p><p>Stan stared at the unicorn. His eyes narrowed. “uhh... yeah.”</p><p>No one said anything. This was probably the moment Stan should have said goodbye. He did not.</p><p>“Are you tryin’ to tell me something, or what?”</p><p>Blue cocked his head. “Not at all? I don’t even know you, dude.”</p><p>“No, it’s just that that was weirdly specific advice.”</p><p>“I’m venting?”</p><p>“You sure you can’t read minds?”</p><p>Blue laughed, or whinnied, or some sort of horse version of a laugh, and tossed his head. “It was good to meet you, Stan Pines!”</p><p>Before Stan could say anything else, Blue galloped away, his friends close behind him. Stan was left with his mouth open, a hand with the fistful of hair hanging in the air. “How do you know my name!?”</p><p>The forest echoed back nothing but the whistling wind, faint harp music, twittering birds, and the distant rumble of Fiddleford’s bazooka, which he must <em> still </em> be shooting. Stan cursed.</p><p>“I guess I’ll just find my way out of the magic grove by myself!”</p><hr/><p>The walk back to Ford’s cabin was a long one. Fiddleford couldn’t read Ford’s handwritten directions on the map he gave them, and the forest was hard enough to navigate anyhow, so Stan was regulated to navigator once more. You would think they could just go back the way they’d come, but apparently, ‘it was unwise to walk in the same footsteps twice during the winter,’ whatever the heck that meant. Stan flipped the map around and squinted at Ford’s scribbles.  “I’m 80 percent sure that says ‘go left after the giant purple mushroom’.” He looked up at the man-sized purple mushroom before them. It was difficult to miss.</p><p>Fiddleford was dragging the bazooka behind him and sweating profusely, but he’d been in a good mood ever since Stan got back, apparently overjoyed by the mindless destruction. His eyes were clearer than Stan had seen since he met him. He rattled on about improvements he could make to the gun, and, for fun, started listing numbers that Stan was pretty sure were the digits of pi. He was delighted to discover he remembered the first three hundred digits! Stan was beginning to understand how he and Ford were friends. Fiddleford swiped his hair out of his face and pushed his glasses up his nose. “What’s the other option?”</p><p>“Go shelf a turd the giant purse of muscle.”</p><p>Fiddleford squinted. “I’m leaning toward option A.”</p><p>“Hey now, don’t knock it. I was thinking option B had merit.”</p><p>“Going left.” Fiddleford took a deep breath and continued to drag the bazooka past the mushroom. He left a fist-sized trail of displaced dirt, moss, and snow behind him. Shrugging, Stan followed.</p><p>They walked through the forest in companionable silence, and Stan breathed deeply. His breath hung in the air. It smelled like pine needles and rain out here. The sun was dappled and gentle in its gaze. Their footsteps crunched in the snow and leaves. The air felt cool, but not painfully so, especially during a hike. Stan’s pocket was padded with the fistful of unicorn hair, more than enough for their purposes. Things were looking up, for once.</p><p>They’d fix this thing with the demon, and then they could start on destroying the stupid portal and then… That was the question, wasn’t it? Stan stumbled on a root under the snow and caught himself on a pine tree, shaking down a light dusting of snow.</p><p>“Ya’ll right?”</p><p>Stan grunted and waved him forward, to which Fiddleford complied.</p><p>Stan was being selfish. Stopping the world-ending evil was more important than his… stuff. Besides, what was he expecting? Blue was right. It would be better to get out of dodge asap once this was all finished. He didn’t need to make things worse for himself. He deserved to put himself first. He swallowed. It felt… bad. And he didn’t even know why, which sucked worse. Besides, maybe Ford <em> could </em>… well, he hadn’t yelled at Stanley lately anyway. Stan sighed. He was overthinking, and it was pathetic.</p><p>All of that was a problem for future Stanley. Right-now Stanley had success in his pocket, a skip in his step, and a kind of crazy but admittedly thoughtful new friend at his side. Why couldn’t Ford be more like Fiddleford? It wasn’t fair.</p><p>They talked about nothing in particular as they walked.</p><p>“... and that’s why he doesn’t like ducks,” said Stan.</p><p>Fiddleford laughed and wiped his eyes. “My word… I can’t believe it. It <em> bit him </em>?”</p><p>“Tried to take the sandwich straight out of his hand. It got into my lap. Birds are much harder to punch than you’d think. They’re slippery suckers... I’ve never seen such an aggressive duck.”</p><p>“Alright, what about the thing with- uh, you know how he does the whole-” Fiddleford shifted the bazooka so his hands were free, and then he stood straight, hands clasping his elbows behind his back. He looked down his nose in a very familiar way and then wrinkled his nose. “Ack, that hurts my shoulders.”</p><p>Stan cackled. “Eh, that’s not as funny a story. He’s just trying to hide his fingers. Guess it's a habit now. I haven't really thought about it.”</p><p>Fiddleford hummed, and they kept walking. After a good minute of silence, Fiddleford spoke and his voice was a little more subdued. “Ford never talked much about himself, ya know? Or his family. Not just you, everyone.”</p><p>Stan was watching his feet.</p><p>“He has lots of opinions, I suppose, but he doesn’t let you… oh I dunno.”</p><p>Stan grunted. “Ford doesn’t do ‘friends’.” Maybe part of that was Stan’s fault.</p><p>Fiddleford hummed. He looked up at Stanley, and then down at the ground again. “... You two were close?”</p><p>Stan took the map out and checked the next piece of instructions. “We’re supposed to walk ten seat past the tree that looks like an old man.”</p><p>“Ten <em> feet </em>, I reckon.”</p><p>Stan rolled the map and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He picked at the fraying hole in the very deepest part of the pocket. “We were.”</p><p>“Close?”</p><p>Stan nodded.</p><p>“A heck of a thing, ten years.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, it goes by faster than you’d think. One minute you’re eighteen scrounging by the skin of your teeth, and the next you’re getting old.”</p><p>Fiddleford didn’t reply for a long moment. He adjusted the weapon in his grip. “We’re not old yet. Twenty-seven isn’t old.”</p><p>“Feel olds.”</p><p>“You ain’t wrong.”</p><p>They passed the tree that looked like an old man, and when they crested the next hill, Ford’s cabin buried in banks of snow came into view.</p><p>Stan’s shoulders relaxed. “Finally.”</p><p>They tromped up to the front steps. Fiddleford unceremoniously deposited his bazooka next to the door. His affection for the weapon appeared dampened after dragging the thing for close to two hours. Pressing in the door code, Stan pushed open the door, grateful for the warmth inside. Thank goodness, Fiddleford had remembered how to turn on the heat. Ford had had no idea how to operate the thing.</p><p>Knocking snow off his boots, Stan dug into his pocket for the unicorn hair. “Ford! We’re back! We’ve got the hair!”</p><p>Fiddleford shut the door behind them and shrugged off his jacket.</p><p>The cluttered house did not reply to Stan’s shout.</p><p>“Ford!”</p><p>Another pause yielded the same results.</p><p>Stan sighed. “... I know he can hear us. You can hear everything through these boards- <em> Ford </em>!” He started up the staircase and the wood creaked beneath his weight. “You didn’t fall asleep, did you?”</p><p>Behind him, Fiddleford stopped at the base of the stairs. “... Stan?”</p><p>“Hey! Yoohoo! We got the unicorn hair!” Stan jogged up the rest of the way. It was dark on the second floor, only lit by the triangular window at the far end of the hallway.</p><p>Stan sighed. From just behind him, Fiddleford’s voice was soft. “Stan, I have a bad-” But his words were cut short.</p><p>Stan twisted open the door to Ford’s bedroom. It was much like they’d left it. The blue and orange carpet continued to be a crime of fashion. The couch had a little dent where Stan sat the day before. The red and orange window panes sent stretched octagons across the floor. As usual, the desk lamp was off, keeping most of the room in shadow. However, a second glance revealed changes. Ford’s research was scattered across the floor; drawings, diagrams, scribbles, and quite a lot of spilled... ink? A pile of books had been knocked to the floor. A dark red stain crept toward the carpet, soaking into the books. Stan’s gaze crawled upward, past smeared handprints, a shattered snowglobe, ripped diagrams. His eyes climbed to the wooden rafters. </p><p>A pair of golden eyes, like sickly twin moons, met Stan’s. They glowed from the upper corner of the room. The silence was overwhelming, broken only by very soft <em> plop </em> of blood onto an open page of Ford’s journal.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*leaves it on a cliff hanger because I'm the devil*<br/>hey, stan got like 3 paragraphs of happiness, though. how generous, huh?<br/>Finally, we're getting to a new section. I am So excited! Thanks for reading everyone. you guys are so so cool.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. In which ford used to get a new backpack every school year and stan always had ford's from the year before</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yay, a quick(er) update! i feel like i should assure the reader- it is going to be okay in the end. don't worry. we're about 2/3 of the way through I think? probably?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When I am grow up I want to be __________</p><p>Stanford Pines, age ten, knew exactly how he wanted to fill in that blank. He wanted to be a world-famous scientist who discovered countless mysterious creatures. He wanted to find aliens and he wanted people on the street to say ‘why look, it’s Dr. Pines who proved ghosts exist!’. He was going to be in textbooks next to Tesla and Einstein. You know, that sort of thing! You couldn’t exactly write out something like that though, because even ten-year-olds knew it was rude to say you thought you were going to be famous.</p><p>When I grow up I want to be  <em> <span class="u">a scientist </span>   </em></p><p>At the desk to Ford’s right, Stanley mashed his pencil into a poor, abused eraser, pockmarking it with black holes. His pencil shavings littered the floor. He leaned back in his chair to whisper in Ford’s ear, though he wasn’t very good at whispering. “Whatcha say, Ford?”</p><p>Ford glanced at the teacher. She was an abnormally tall woman who wore a fabric belt right at her waist and whose shoes clicked on the tile. Sitting at her desk, she peered down her nose at a paperback novel she was trying to hide behind a pile of textbooks. The important part was she wasn’t listening or looking.</p><p>“A scientist.”</p><p>“You always say that!”</p><p>“I still want to be one!”</p><p>Stan rolled his eyes. He dropped the front two legs of his chair down with a <em> thump </em> and scribbled on his page. He held his pencil funny, squeezed in his left fist, with his hand curled around in front of it. Ford thought he should probably show him to support it with his index finger, not his pinkie, but he very much doubted Stan would let him man-handle his hand long enough to get him to hold it right. He should try regardless because no one else seemed to notice Stan holding his pencil wrong.</p><p>Stan held his page up. “Today I think I’ll be a pirate.”</p><p>He always said dumb stuff like that. “Pirates don’t exist anymore.”</p><p>“Well, I’ll be a- a privateer!”</p><p>Ford considered this. “A bounty hunter? I think they still have those.”</p><p>“A bounty hunter! Yeah!”</p><p>The teacher’s chair squeaked against the tile. She pushed back and stood. “Pines Twins! Talking again! This is the <em> last straw! </em>”</p><p>“Aw, Mrs. Brown, we wasn’t-”</p><p>“Detention! Both of you!”</p><p>Ford’s mouth dropped open. “But he was talking to me!”</p><p>“Would you like <em> two detentions </em>?”</p><p>Ford dropped his eyes to his desk, hands pressed beneath him. “No, ma’am.” He waited until her gaze fell away and then he kept his head forward for the rest of the class. He couldn’t afford to get in trouble. He could feel Stanley trying to get his attention every so often, but he did not relent.</p><p>It wasn’t until the bell screamed above their heads, clanging shrilly, Ford dared relax. The room erupted in a mess of shuffling and zipping and stomping as the twenty-or-so kids prepared to leave. Stuffing his books into his backpack, he pushed his glasses up his nose.  “Did you know they put bells in school to simulate factory conditions?”</p><p>Stanley, also shoving a notebook covered in doodles and scribbles into his rather dusty bag, looked up and grinned at him. “You ain’t mad at me?”</p><p>“It’s <em> you are not, </em> Stan. And I didn’t say that.” He shouldered the bag and frowned at the ground. They walked out into the hallway, buffeted by their taller classmates. Navigating the halls was akin to swimming through a forest of seaweed. He had to raise his voice to be heard even though Stan was right next to him. “This is the <em> third time, </em> Lee.”</p><p>“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! Detention isn’t so bad. We’ll play table football, like last time!”</p><p>Ford’s stomach flipped. “I don’t want to play! You don’t get it, do you? I can’t get in trouble! I <em> have </em> to get good grades.”</p><p>An absurdly tall eleven-year-old stepped between them, but once he passed, Ford was able to see Stan’s baffled look. “Why?”</p><p>Ford stuttered. “I just do!” They took a left in the hallway, past large windows. The morning light might have been refreshing if it wasn’t filtered through a hot, crowded elementary. A thought walked through Ford’s mind. He considered it uneasily. His grip tightened on the straps of the backpack Dad bought him last week. He stared at his laces. “... I’m gonna ask the teacher if I can switch seats.” He sped up before he could catch Stan’s response, and he did this intentionally. He was going to be a scientist.</p><hr/><p>Bill didn’t give him any warning. One moment, Ford was chewing on the end of his pen, considering whether he should radio Stan and see how they were doing, the next, all hell broke loose. Surely between Stan and Fiddleford, they had enough competence to acquire the unicorn hair. Probably. They must be on their way back by now. Ford messed with the channels on the radio, his leg bouncing beneath the desk. His back was killing him. He didn’t think he’d ever sat in a chair for so long (well, there was that one weekend at uni, but that was finals and that was just how it was). He gave in and pressed the On button. “Stan, come in, do you have the hair yet?” The line hissed, empty. Ford tried again. “Stan. Fiddleford? Come in!” He listened. Stan’s less-than-intelligent clone, who Stan must <em> still </em> have not dissolved, was singing Take Me Home Country Roads in his closet, and Ford caught the tail end of a loud portion of the chorus. Ford heard another sound- a hiss from… down the hall. Sighing, Ford clicked on the radio once more and spoke. As he expected, his own voice echoed from down the hall. Stan must have forgotten the walkie-talkie. “Wonderful.”</p><p>Luckily, he had the other thing. Ford dug through his jacket deposited on the floor next to the desk. The pockets were deep, probably more than strictly necessary. A few months ago, he sewed large pockets into it so that he could keep his journal on him at all times. He pulled out another walkie-talkie, the one he’d re-engineered as a kid, and booted it up. The green screen blinked, loading at an agonizing pace.</p><p>He waited. His leg bounced faster. “C’mon…”</p><p>The screen glitched and then settled. The little green pin-prick of light pulsed when Ford zoomed in. He relaxed into his chair. It appeared Stan was less than five minutes away. Finally, he could get out of this dratted handcuff. Everything was going to be okay.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>Before his gaze settled once more, a rush of nausea flew through him. Ford jerked straight. His fingers went numb, and then his arms, and then his chest. It happened so quickly, he hardly had a moment to react. “What are you-” But even as he spoke, his tongue betrayed him, and he broke into a maniacal laugh. Bill stepped through his mind, and it <em> hurt. </em> They weren’t usually both inside his body at once, or they hadn’t in months anyway. He could feel him, just behind his eyes, and it had always been uncomfortable, but it was growing increasingly obvious how <em> wrong </em> it felt to have someone else in your head. He was all angles and jagged edges. Bill stretched through Ford’s limbs, a cold so deep it burned, and flexed Ford’s fist.</p><p>Ford couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop laughing. He pushed back and managed to knock his books to the floor before his entire body went numb, and he was once again aware of the peculiar sensation that came with being a person without a physical form.</p><p>“What?” Bill said out loud. “Did you figure I’d just let you ruin this?” Bill tugged at the handcuff. “It’s cute how you think you’re in control here.” He laughed again, whipping Ford’s face to the ceiling. “Alright, sucker, scoot over.”</p><p>There was a shove, like a punch in the gut, and Ford fell backward, through the chair. He flailed for purchase, gasping for breath. When his vision steadied, it was dark, and he got a faceful of wood and blue carpet. His legs danged in the living room below.</p><p>Kicking, Ford pulled himself up, only to freeze. There wasn’t anyone to help. Bill could have done this the entire time. Ford was completely alone against him, and <em> Stan was going to walk right into this! </em></p><p>“Bill, you don’t want to damage-”</p><p>“Oh, we’re well past that, Sixer.” Bill kicked the chair, and it clattered to the floor. His eyes flashed. He crouched because of the handcuff. Ford couldn’t watch anymore. He covered his eyes reflexively, but that didn’t stop him from hearing a popping knuckle and ripping fabric. </p><p>The handcuff thumped softly on the carpet.</p><p>When Ford opened his eyes, Bill wiggled bloody fingers at him in a facsimile of a wave. There was a long cut along the back of Ford’s hand and something wasn’t quite right about his thumb, but all fingers were still present, so he supposed that was the one good thing. Strings of blood drooled down his arm, pooling at the elbow, and dripped onto Bill’s shoes. “Oops.”</p><p>This was bad in so many ways, Ford didn’t even know where to start. He couldn’t move, and his throat was tight as he floated above the carpet. His terror was heavy. It ought to have dropped him through the floor and down, down, down into the basement. Bill thrust an arm out, knocking everything off the desk. His journals, his books, his notes. “I’ve been quiet these last few days,” Bill said. He clamored up onto the desk, grabbing for more diagrams Ford had pinned to the walls, growing more frenzied by the moment, tugging and ripping and pushing. “One could say, almost out of narrative convenience! But you’ve made it pretty clear. You don’t want to work with me? Okay, cool. It’s not my fault you’re a traitor! But I <em> am </em> going to get that portal working, with or without you!” He straightened, standing on the desk, and met Ford’s eyes with a gaze so inhumanly vacant, shark-like in its utter lack of compassion, that Ford barely managed to maintain contact.</p><p>Ripped pages fluttered to the floor. Ford couldn’t possibly fathom a response.</p><p>At this moment, the door slammed downstairs. Bill grinned. “Right on time…” He clamored up the wall, into the shadowy rafters.</p><p>Ford finally snapped out of it. “I- I don’t-” There wasn’t time to fight with him. Bill Cipher wasn’t going to listen, and Ford was a fool to think he could reason with a creature like him. Like <em> it. </em> </p><p>Ford flew through the door, down the hall. “Stanley, stop!” he screamed. Stan had a handful of bright blue hair in his fist as he ascended the stairs, and Fiddleford was just behind him. They were both a little muddy, but otherwise no worse for wear. Stan swiped his hair out of his eyes and tucked the unicorn hair back into his pocket as he rounded the corner, heedless of Ford’s shouts. “Hey! Yoohoo! We got the unicorn hair.”</p><p>Just behind Stan, Fiddleford walked quieter, wringing his hands. “Stan, I have a bad-” But Stanley wasn’t paying attention. He stomped right up to Ford’s door and opened it up. Ford cursed as both men stiffened, taking in the destroyed room beyond, and if Ford had been terrified before, he now could feel nothing but the roar of lightning-like adrenaline. Bill wasn’t holding back anymore.</p><p>Almost as he had the thought the creaking of the rafters quickened to a groan, Stan’s arms yanked up, and Bill shot from the corner of the room, hardly a step on the carpet, and slammed directly into Stanley’s chest. Stan went over with a great backward movement, like a coat thrown carelessly across the room, and took Fiddleford down with him. A knife, apparently in his pocket, flew from his hand like a shooting spark and thunked into the wood trimming of the wall. And he himself landed against the opposite side of the hallway with so earth-shaking a weight that he broke the wood of the wall with his body and shook into the air a cloud of brown dust- like the smoke of some burning fire.</p><p>Bill did not allow Stan to recover but pressed his shoe into Stan’s chest. “I’ll take that!” He grabbed for Stan’s pocket, but Stan took hold of Bill’s leg and threw him sideways, tossing him to the floor with greater strength than Ford would have anticipated. Getting to his knees, Stan shook his head, eyes unfocused, and then fumbled for Fiddleford’s shoulder, pushing him further from Bill. Fiddleford did not resist, his face a mask of horror, and the push was enough to send him scrambling like a frightened dog.</p><p>Bill recovered quickly. He lunged for Stan again. This time, Stan ducked, getting to his feet, and kicked Bill in the chest. Bill’s head snapped against the wall, knocking down books from a nearby shelf. Stan planted another hit, and Bill lifted his hand up as if to block him. He began to laugh, at first quietly, and then louder. Louder still, until Stan stopped, uncertain. </p><p>Stan wiped his bleeding nose. “Get out of my brother, ya creep.”</p><p>Bill only cackled louder and slowly lowered his hand to reveal a sick smile and the other hand which he rested at Ford’s neck. Gripped in Bill's fist was Stan’s dropped pocket knife, gleaming and already tainted with the blood from Bill’s hand. He pressed it closer to Ford’s throat and waited, smug, for Stan to process the threat. </p><p>Ford could not do anything at all but listen to the roaring in his ears. A horrible little thought whispered so loudly he did not hear either of their words. </p><p>“You’re really going to kill me,” Ford managed. Maybe not right now. Maybe not this week, but Bill would get to him eventually, and there was nothing Ford could do about it. Bill would kill him like he’d kill anyone else; like he killed those thugs in New Mexico. Ford had assumed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Bill needed him. The demon’s eyes flicked to Ford’s and he blinked, one eye at a time. He did not even bother to render Ford a response to his revelation.</p><p>When Stan handed over the unicorn hair, it sizzled in Bill’s hand, its magic automatically opposed to Bill’s presence, turning to ash, and Ford’s hopes burned right along with it.  </p><p>Bill wiped his hand down the front of his shirt, leaving a stain both grey and red, knife pressed still tight against Ford’s neck. “This is my house now.”</p><p>That was that.</p><p>Stan ran, and Ford floated up, through the ceiling and into the attic. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. Once through the ceiling, he allowed himself to drift through the boards of the roof, into the winter’s evening.</p><hr/><p>He found Stan a good ten minutes away from the cabin, his car idling in the center of the road. Steam poured out of the exhaust pipe, and the headlights vibrated with the rumble of the engine, illuminating a swath of snow-dusted forest elongated by shadow. Stan had his arms over the wheel and his head bent between them as if in supplication, though Ford knew Stan wasn’t the praying sort.</p><p>Ford angled himself carefully and eased into the car. The longer he spent disembodied, the easier it was to manipulate his position. A wave of volume from Stan’s radio crashed over him. Some horrible rock song, all jangling and grating. Stan’s head dropped lower and he pulled his arms over his head. His fingers curled roughly into the hair on the back of his scalp while the radio screamed. Ford knew instinctively this wasn’t a scene he was allowed to see, but under the circumstances, he wasn’t sure what else to do.</p><p>While Stan’s head was still down, Ford reached forward and took hold of the puppet on the dashboard- the Thomas Edison one from the gas station a lifetime ago. “Lee?” He tried to keep his voice soft, and the music helped, but Stan still startled, jerking up and looking around wildly, fists at the ready. Of course, there was no one waiting for him except a single finger puppet, which floated in the gap between the driver and passenger seat.</p><p>Stan’s face went through a quick series before he managed to compose himself. Relief, then sadness, then anger. His eyes were bloodshot. As he was prone, Stanley settled into anger. He twisted down the radio and his whole body tightened, winding up like a spring. "Ford!"</p><p>It didn’t matter what Ford said next. There wasn’t anything he could say that would have been the right thing. “Where did Fiddleford go?”</p><p>Stan huffed and refused to look at the puppet. “Ran off. Prolly to go blast his memories.”</p><p>If Ford hadn’t taken the memory gun, he would assume the same. “As long as he got away, he’ll be fine.”</p><p>Stan grunted and turned the radio up a notch. He stared at the empty mountain road like it had something to say. After a long moment, he crossed his arms. “... now what?”</p><p>Ford took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh before answering. “I have a bunker in the forest we can go to. It’ll keep us safe for now. It’s not far from here.” </p><p>Stan snorted. “Course you do.”</p><p>Ford’s jaw tightened. Clearly, it was a good thing he’d invested in a doomsday bunker/research facility because they very definitely needed it now. He scowled even though he knew Stan couldn’t see it. The radio continued to wail. It was difficult to think through the noise. “ Can you turn that down?”</p><p>That was what it took to burst the wound-up spring under Stan’s skin. Stan cursed and threw up the volume. He shouted over the music. “Can I? Why? Why the heck should I do <em> anything </em> for you!” </p><p>The guitar wailed.</p><p>Stan punched the off button, bringing a rush of silence just as violent as the noise. His hands were shaking and Stan must have noticed as well because he curled his hands into fists and dropped them into his lap. It didn’t help. The shiver only moved to the rest of him, until he ducked his head again and grabbed at his hair. “<em> Screw it all,” </em>he whispered into his chest from behind his arms.</p><p>Ford swallowed. If he had a physical form, he would no doubt be shaking as well. “Are you alright?”</p><p>Stan snarled and smacked at the puppet. “I’m fine!” Clearly, he wasn’t. The whole world was crashing over them. Bill nearly sliced Ford open like it was nothing. Like <em> they </em>were nothing. It played in Ford’s mind when he shut his eyes, and he didn’t even want to think about the sorts of nightmares he would have if he ever had a body to sleep in once more. Stan didn’t deserve this.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re sorry! I guess that makes it okay then! Jeez, Ford, I’m sure the devil is sorry too! The world is going to end, and it’s <em> your fault! </em>”</p><p>It was like someone had ripped his lungs right out. He couldn’t speak for a moment. Ford dropped the puppet and had to fumble to put it on again. When he could speak, his voice cracked and warbled in a way he wished he could control. “I know! Don’t you know I know that?! I was…” What was he? Afraid, alone, desperate?  “I trusted him and I shouldn’t have. I thought he valued my input. I was a fool.”</p><p>Stan squeezed his knees with his hands and kept his gaze resolutely on the dark road. “What do you expect me to do about it?”</p><p>“I-I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.” This didn’t satisfy Stan. Slowly, Ford dropped the puppet into his lap, waiting for Stan’s decision. He couldn’t do this without Stanley, and as he waited, everything out of his hands, he realized even if he could, he didn’t want to.</p><p>A long time passed, probably no more than a minute, but eons in Ford’s mind. A deer paused in the light illuminating the forest and darted onward. Finally, Stan wrapped his hands around the wheel. His voice was soft when he spoke, gentle, almost, but in the gruff way which always characterized this new version of his brother. “ I can’t talk to you right now.” </p><p>Ford’s breath hitched as he forced himself to accept the blow. He took Stan’s words for what they were. It was fair enough. Ford swallowed and settled as best he could against the backseat of the car. Invisibility was fitting and it was exactly as he deserved. He tucked his hands beneath him, a puppet in his lap, and screwed his eyes shut.</p><p>“The world better still exist tomorrow. I need a drink tonight.”</p><p>As the car crawled toward the bunker, Ford studied the dumb puppet. He didn’t notice when Stan did it, but the radio was on again, quieter now, and it filled the air up with the comfort of something else besides their thoughts. Every so often, he murmured a direction to Stan. The car bumped along, on a dirt road now. Ford picked at the puppet’s face, fiddled with the cheap fabric already unwinding. He couldn’t keep doing this- whatever it was he was doing so wrong. It wasn’t working.</p><p>As Stan pulled to a stop in the middle of the forest, where Ford had directed him, Ford’s resolve hardened. And by the time Ford had pointed Stan to the secret door into the bunker, he’d settled into his decision. As Stan walked down the spiral staircase into the earth, it was set in stone. It didn’t matter that Bill didn’t need him. He’d prove he was a threat to be reckoned with. If Bill Cipher was going to kill Ford, Ford would simply have to kill Bill first.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. In which in retrospect taking that one puppeting class would have been nice actually</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And I’m back everyone! This chapter drove me insane and idk why, but I can’t mess with it anymore or I’ll go bananas. I like writing in one or two sittings and this one straight up took like 2 weeks</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bunker was vast, built tight with the last of Ford’s grant money. He would be in an incredible amount of trouble if the school found out he used it for a laboratory which was truly more of a doomsday shelter. But, if the world ended, everyone would have bigger concerns. Ford supposed he might have made it cozier. A clinical melancholy and the bite of wet metal oppressed the whole place, and Ford hadn’t thought whether or not he liked it until now, though Stan, immediately upon entering and cranking on the buzzing green lights, chaffed him about the choice. Other than this short criticism, Stan had not said a word.</p>
<p>    His room, or what would have been his room, in a back corner of the vault, was crammed with grey and green furniture, had a thrifted couch like a day old balloon, and a shower down the hall. Somewhere in the long tunnels, water dripped continuously, and the sporadic beeping of equipment made sleep near impossible. Stan kept his silence, his eyes on the floor. He dropped onto Ford’s couch and unloaded an ungodly amount of weapons from his pockets. If they were speaking, Ford might have made a quip about it. A knife from the boot, flat and gleaming bronze knuckles from his breast pocket, a little pistol from the back of his pants, another knife from the other boot. You get the idea. He began to snore before Ford could form a protest.</p>
<p>Alone, the vault became unbearable. Ford decided he hated the place, well and truly. How he’d conceived it possible to spend the rest of his life here was beyond him. If worse came to worse, which apparently it had, he thought he’d escape down here where Bill might not get to him. Bill had been in his mind while Ford and Fiddleford used the place as an extra laboratory, so he would, of course, know it inside and out. Ford’s escape was futile. The safety of the metal walls were only illusions when the enemy was inside your head. There were weapons down here... but Bill had weapons in the shack, so they were at a standstill there as well. Not to mention, Ford would rather not get promoted to Permanent Ghost. Though if it <em> had  </em>to happen… well, it had to happen, didn’t it? There was no way Stan would be the one to pull the trigger. Ford didn’t want to even consider trying to convince him. He clearly wasn’t a viable option. Ford needed alternatives just in case.</p>
<p>Ford didn’t like being without a body this long, but it wasn’t so bad. He understood why Bill wanted so badly to get into their realm. He’d conceived an existence without a physical form to be torturous, and while, in reality, it was more immensely frustrating and, frankly, boring, the sentiment remained. This was another reason he’d agreed to build the portal. He thought he was doing Bill a favor, giving him a physical form when he otherwise was doomed to wander the nightmare realm for the rest of eternity. It hadn’t occurred to him to consider what Bill would do with a physical form once he had it. Ford wasn’t good at that. He didn’t see the big picture, and this was becoming more and more obvious by the hour. He didn’t want to, if he was going to be completely honest. He’d narrow in on the one thing he wanted to think about, whether this was a specific equation, a detailed list, an experiment, a game, or... a particular university he needed to attend and a single argument that, at the time, felt like his entire world. Stanley on the other hand, couldn’t handle details for the life of him, but he sure could fit together all the pieces into some kind of comprehensible, unified thing. He saw things Ford didn’t. Why?</p>
<p>“I’m an idiot,” Ford said over the desk in the study, piled with books he was trying to pay attention to. “An utter fool. I should never have listened to Bill, or let Fiddleford leave, or gone off to live by myself in a cabin.” He tried to turn a page, but the puppet’s hands were difficult to manipulate, and the page flipped up, then back down again. He whipped off the puppet with a flick.  “... It wasn’t even an interesting project. Perpetual motion? Honestly, I want to yawn just thinking about it! You know, I imagine I wouldn’t have gotten into that stupid school even if it had worked. Every kid submits a perpetual motion machine… What I’m trying to say, is I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean- I know that we’re in a lot of trouble now, and it’s my fault and you have no reason you ought to stay other than to keep the world from ending, but I…”</p>
<p>Ford trailed off as Thomas Edison, propped where he landed against a can of beans on the bunker’s desk, slid to the side and gazed horizontally at him with the blankness typical of a finger puppet. Ford gave it a look. He sighed, long and irritable, and slid forward, face buried in his arms as he floated. A tinny yellow bulb hung above the study, his little personal library, and cast odd, lilting shadows across everything. It all felt very lonely right then.</p>
<p>“What am I doing?” Ford said into the elbow of his sweater.</p>
<p>Edison considered the upper left corner of the room.</p>
<p>Ford snatched him up again. He continued scanning the books. If he was going to be awake, he might as well work.</p>
<p>There were no windows in the bunker, so Ford only knew when it was morning because the bedside alarm went off down the hall where Stan slept. There was an irritable growl and the sound of smashing machinery (which was to be expected. Stan was not a morning person.) Ford heard it in a distant part of his mind, but he was quite consumed with his midnight reading. If he was going to kill Bill, he’d need to kill a creature of the mind. How did one kill an idea? It proved more difficult than he’d anticipated. It didn’t help that turning pages took considerable effort. He'd pinch the puppets little cloth hands around the page, and use them to turn it. Ford was starting to wonder just how far he could stretch this ‘possession’ thing. Did it only work with puppets? How much did it need to look like a puppet? There had to be some way he could use that. </p>
<p>But first, Stan was awake, finally. Ford zipped out of his study and watched Stan stumble toward the kitchen. He drug his feet, yawned hugely and fumbled for the coffeemaker on the counter. His fingers mashed the buttons, and he squinted iritibly at the thing.</p>
<p>Ford, floating in the doorway, suddenly loathing to break the silence. Were they still... not talking?</p>
<p>“Did you… sleep well?”</p>
<p>Stan dropped the coffee pot into the counter, sloshing coffee over the sides. “Holy Moses, Ford. We’ve gotta get you a bell.” He scrubbed his face and looked around, frowning. “Where are you?”</p>
<p>“Over here,” Ford waved the puppet. Its head flopped back and forth. Stan blinked at it. He had a dull glaze to the whole of him, not angry like he was last night, just tired. Was that better? Not really.</p>
<p>“That thing is ridiculous.”</p>
<p>“If you have a better idea, I would love to hear it.”</p>
<p>Stan wrinkled his nose and went back to his coffee, pouring it slowly into a tin cup, and then taking a deep drink as he sat against the counter. His eyelids hung low.</p>
<p>They needed to have an actual conversation. Now was as good a time as any. He opened his mouth, but Stan sharpened in the pause between them and spoke before Ford could even start.</p>
<p>“Could always…” An idea having caught, he set down the cup and tugged at one of his socked feet.</p>
<p>Ford blanched. “Ah, no, I think-”</p>
<p>“We’ll promote you to sock puppet!” He waved the thing. It was off-white with indeterminate brown stains, stretched and deflated, and Ford already knew it smelled.</p>
<p>“Stanley, I would rather not.”</p>
<p>“Aw, it’ll be fine! Here!” He held the sock out. His eyes didn’t meet Ford’s, but only because he couldn’t, and Ford got the impression that if he could <em> see </em> Stanford, he would. Ford paused, a protest halfway up his throat.</p>
<p>“Well?”</p>
<p>Ford reached out to grab it. Surely he couldn’t just stick a sock over his hands and call it a day? The gesture was for naught, because the sock fell right through his fingers, onto the floor between them.</p>
<p>“I tried to grab it.”</p>
<p>Stan huffed and snatched the sock off the floor again. He chewed his lip and then riffled through the kitchen drawers until he brandished a black marker. Pulling the top off his with teeth, Stan wrote on the sock quickly and then stuck it over his hand. “There,” he made the sock say, “Now it's a puppet.” It had two uneven black dots to serve as eyes. It was the ugliest little puppet Stanford had ever laid eyes on.</p>
<p>Ford held his hand out for it. “Alright, but if this doesn’t work…” The puppet dropped into his open palm and hung there. He trailed off, shocked. “Fascinating.” He wasn’t sure this was much better than the finger puppet, but the discovery felt important regardless. He tugged it over his hand and stuck Edison into the pocket of his coat. “Can you hear me, Stanley?”</p>
<p>“Loud and clear!” Stanley grinned, and then his grin faltered, like he’d realized something. The grin vanished. Clearing his throat, Stan went back to his coffee. “Now I just have one sock I guess.”</p>
<p>Ford twisted the puppet around and picked at it. “Is it the eyes? Does it need eyes? There does seem to be something important about eyes...”</p>
<p> Whatever excitement Stan had had before, it had deflated. He hummed. “Did I tell you about the bazillion eyes in Fidds’s house?”</p>
<p>Fod cocked his head. “You did not.”</p>
<p>“Hundreds of crossed out eyes- had them glued to everything.”</p>
<p>Ford felt a little sick. “... Why?”</p>
<p>“How would I know? You’re the portal expert. Whatever you did to him-”</p>
<p>“I didn’t do anything to him!” Ford kept messing up the timing with his hand and his words and it was getting obvious that he’d never spent a significant portion of time puppeting. “He got tangled in the rope and fell partly through the portal into the nightmare realm.”</p>
<p>Stan didn’t look appeased by this. He grimaced. “Ah. Well no wonder.”</p>
<p>Ford opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to say that if it had been <em> he  </em>who fell through the portal, he would have stayed. But he hadn’t actually been there, had he? Except for the brief glimpse Bill granted to mock him. So Ford did not say this, and instead he suddenly wondered where Fiddleford ran off to the day prior. Every conversation he had with Stanley lately seemed to end up like this, knocking the wind out of him.</p>
<p>“It’s another piece of evidence in favor of the ‘nightmare realm related to eyes somehow’ hypothesis.”</p>
<p>Stan grunted. “He’s a triangle with an eye, ain’t he?”</p>
<p>“Bill?” Ford hesitated over the name. He was fairly certain Bill knew when people talked about him. It seemed like the sort of thing he could/would do. “Yes, he is. Or he at least appears that way.”</p>
<p>Stan went quiet, and his fingers rubbed at the scratches on his mug. “How long do you think we have?”</p>
<p>It was a fair question, one they ought to have addressed immediately. Ford chewed his lip. “He’ll need to load the fuel and then it’ll take 72 hours to boot up, so I suppose we have approximately 64 hours.</p>
<p>Stan cursed. “Why did you let me sleep then!”</p>
<p>“I couldn’t wake you up. You’re injured and-”</p>
<p>Stan swiped at the puppet. “Fine, fine! But we need a plan.”</p>
<p>An idea was already stirring in the back of Ford’s mind. He just needed further evidence. “I believe we can manage that.”</p>
<p>So off they went to the library. Research was easier with Stanley present. He could turn the pages. Ford couldn’t think of a single instance where Stanley hadn’t been immensely irritating to read around. This was a first. Stanley was always making too much noise- drumming his fingers or sighing or popping his lips or shifting around every two seconds. He was silent now, and Ford sort of wished he wasn’t. Stan flicked through a book on astrophysics, a frown deeply ingrained on his forehead, and all at once, snapped it shut. “I don’t have time to learn astrophysics,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“I agree.” Ford was getting excited, however. The more he read, the more obvious it became. He almost missed Stan’s words, so involved was he in the reading.</p>
<p>“Uhhhhh, here’s what I’m thinking.” Stan rubbed his nose. “We’ve got to shut off the portal, and to do that we’ve got to get him away from it. He’s a mind creature, right?”</p>
<p>Ford nodded, and then, remembering Stan couldn’t see him, spoke out loud. “Yes.” He flipped over a page, biting the page with the puppet’s ‘mouth’.</p>
<p>“And he’s got a big ol’ eye he sees out of. You said he sees out of all eyes?”</p>
<p>“Even the eyes on birch trees.” Stanley was apparently following the same line of thought as Ford.</p>
<p>“That must be why Fidds was crossing them out...” He sat up suddenly. “Wait a sec. Does that work? Crossing out eyes?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. That’s what I am trying to determine. There doesn’t seem to be any instructions on how to blind Cipher specifically, but if we could blind him temporarily-”</p>
<p>“He’s in your body! We could just knock him out.”</p>
<p>A fair point. None of this was permanent. They needed something permanent. “He’ll find someone else to possess. I’m sure he already has a few lined up in case something like that happens.”</p>
<p>Stan drummed his fingers on the book. He was sitting in the desk chair with his legs on the desk. “So we figure out a way to keep him stuck in your head.”</p>
<p>Ford thought for a moment and then brightened. “A sort of mental cage. The unicorn hair! If we could get more, perhaps we can trap him inside the house rather than outside.”</p>
<p>Stan shrugged. “If you think it’ll work.”</p>
<p>“I don’t see why not.”</p>
<p>“That’s not a yes but I’ll take it.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t an incredible plan. In fact, it wasn't even very clever, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances.</p>
<p>“So we somehow secretly put the unicorn hair around the house, go inside, knock him out, and then I go haywire on the portal.”</p>
<p>Ford made a face. “Well, not exactly. If you simply start trashing it, there is a chance the rip will only grow wider, especially with the portal so close to running.”</p>
<p>“... I was afraid you’d say that.”</p>
<p>    “I’ll walk you through it.” He chewed his lip. Stan drummed the pencil on an open book. Here was another moment Ford should take, another second held out to him like a sunward palm.</p>
<p>    Stan cleared his throat and jerked his feet off the table, like he knew about the second too. “More unicorn hair it is.”</p>
<p>Ford let him go, because what else could he do? “Wait, Stanley-” Stanley was already out of earshot. Even if he wasn’t<em> ,  </em>it wouldn’t have mattered. Stanley didn’t want to talk.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Eeeek it’s all falling into place! You guys don’t know, but I’m telling you, it’s falling into place</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. In which unicorns are wrestled once more</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sup everyone. Man, maybe I'll get lucky and finish this project in a single semester. Won't that be wild!<br/>TRIGGER WARNING: vague talk about suicide.<br/>Gonna go right out and say i am in no way promoting suicide as a good option ever, and this story is NOT going to end in main character death. I don't wanna spoil any more than that, but also want you all to stay safe</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Clouds hung over the forest like sticky cotton, scattering a half-hearted drizzle between the trees which dampened the remnants of snow. It must still be chilly. Stan wrapped his coat tighter around him as he tromped over the wet twigs and muddy ice. Bobbing behind him like a balloon, Ford kept the sock puppet close to his chest. Ford was on edge, every snapping twig, the distant </span>
  <em>
    <span>floouwp </span>
  </em>
  <span>of snow off a branch, causing him to start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they reached the unicorn’s clearing, Ford was hardly paying attention. He was… well, it took a moment to parse out. There was a vague cloud of Bad hanging over him, and honestly, so many bad things had happened of late, it was difficult to tell what made up its substance.  He was afraid, certainly. And beneath that, a dry, sadness scuffed his bones like sandpaper, a sadness nothing could be done about, and a certainty that things just might always be this way. It was probably not best to dwell too long on the feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes steady on his task. When he rapped on the front door of the unicorn's magic clearing, it boomed around them in the post-storm quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stanley?” Ford tried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley didn’t turn. He bounced on his heels, waiting for the door to open. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford opened his mouth, but the door opened with a rush of warm air and the triumphant soar of harp music. Near a stream sat a beautiful unicorn, who, upon seeing who’d knocked on the door, let out an ugly shriek, lips curled in horror. She reared back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan cackled, stepping inside. “Gimme a minute- Heya, miss rainbow horse lady!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Behind him, a distant sound caught Ford’s attention. A scuffle, breaking branches, and muttered curses. “What in the dagon tarnation... flippin’ leaves,‘saken </span>
  <em>
    <span>mud. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I ain’t made for this nonsense…” It was a familiar voice, and familiar words, even, and though far off, Ford did not have to guess who it belonged to. He’d know that voice anywhere. Without hesitation, he twisted in the air and headed toward the racket, eyes scanning the brush beneath him. Stan clearly did not need his help. He had demonstrated he was more than competent enough to get the unicorn hair on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fiddleford!” Ford came to a stop, relieved. “You’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Mud caked Fiddleford’s knees and elbows, leaves stuck out from his hair, quivering with his shivers, but he wasn’t injured. Ford guessed he’d been out here all night. His head shot up so quickly he nearly knocked himself over, and he spun a long stick in his hands. “Wh-what? Who’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Ford positioned himself directly in front of him and lifted the puppet. “It’s me. Stanford.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“WHAT THE DEVIL-” Fiddleford leveled the makeshift spear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Fiddleford, don’t!” Fiddleford swiped, and Ford darted up, out of the way. “Calm down!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Don’t tell me what ta do!” Fiddleford swiped at the puppet once more, but it was fruitless and he dropped it to his side, breathing heavily. His neck craned toward the puppet. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>? The heck are ya doing with my friend’s voice, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span>-” Ford stopped. “I’m your friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like he’d hit Fiddleford over the head. He sputtered. The stick now hung awkwardly. “Well, I, I don’t... Drat it, Ford! Where are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here. My hand is in the puppet. Unfortunately, someone else is occupying my body at the moment.” He made it sound lighthearted, like someone was borrowing his notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford gripped the stick tighter, eyes wide. “The demon…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You recall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glared. “I misplaced ma memory gun, so unfortunately, I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford didn’t have energy to feel guilty about that too.  He didn’t know how much Stan had told him, if he remembered the portal incident, or if he’d just drawn conclusions. He looked his friend up and down and suddenly wished Fiddleford could see him. There wasn’t much he could do about it at the moment, and whose fault was that? He cleared his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a plan. Stan and I. We'll use the unicorn hair to trap him inside the house, knock my body out and then dismantle the portal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford kept his gaze steady on the puppet. “... that aint gonna kill it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford swallowed. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Can</span>
  </em>
  <span> you kill it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s an idea. A nightmare. It resides in the mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something passed across Fiddleford’s face, and he folded inward. “Ah.” Carefully, he sat down onto a stump, messing in the mud with his stick. He wasn’t looking at the puppet anymore. For a long moment he said nothing at all. Then he exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath. Far off, something rumbled. “How’d we end up here, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Through a series of miscalculations on my part.” Ford swallowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that an apology?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... No.” He cleared his throat. “But you deserve one. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry, though it doesn’t mean much now. I treated you very poorly and… all of this is my fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford kept poking mud with the stick, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Something rumbled once more. Ford probably should just leave. He’d destroyed this man’s entire life. He single-handedly reduced an up-and-coming genius, someone with a family and a future, into this crumpled thing brandishing a stick in the forest. He didn’t mean for this to happen. Turning to go, Ford dropped the puppet to his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Fiddleford spoke. “Do you remember at Backupsmore, when you used to stay up all night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford paused. He turned back. “... Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I made you promise you wouldn’t do that anymore?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not see how this is relevant-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiddleford swiped at the air, quieting him. “I wanted you to do it so you wouldn’t get sick, but you only agreed cause if you got sick, I didn’t have no one to sit with. And that wasn’t so big a deal to me, but you stopped cause a’ me. Cause you knew I didn’t like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford said nothing. He hadn't </span>
  <span>known Fiddleford was aware of this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stabbing the dirt, Fiddleford looked up at the puppet. “You did some bad things. Some real… real messed up stuff, Ford, I can't pretend you didn't. But you're not a bad person. Don't have ta be, anyway."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you trying to get at, Fiddleford?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Just that it ain't over yet. You should think about the promises you make."</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>They were dancing around the issue, but Ford knew precisely what Fiddleford was afraid would be the end result of this whole venture. It’d be fitting, wouldn’t it? He deserved to pay for the things he’d done. It wasn’t fair that he should get anything less than the due penalty for his error. Everyone else sure wasn’t. It wasn't fair. “Don’t worry,” he assured, voice soft. “I’ll be okay. We have a plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Ya better. Be smart, Ford.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Ford smiled, even if Fiddleford couldn’t see it. “Speaking of broken promises, I seem to recall the other side of that agreement was that if I went to bed at a reasonable hour, you would cut off your mullet.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The jibe caught Fiddleford off-guard, and he almost laughed. “It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>hardly</span>
  </em>
  <span> a mullet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can put it in a pony-tail now, I believe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven't taken a bath in near two-weeks, Ford. The mullet is the least of my problems. Besides, I aint remember that. Can’t keep a promise you don’t remember!” He was smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Ford chuckled. “I suppose that’s fair.” He didn’t know where to go from here. He hadn’t expected Fiddleford to keep speaking to him after his apology, especially given their earlier interaction. The weight of the situation was too heavy to ignore. “We could use your help.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Fiddleford shrank in on himself. “I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He waited, a long silence between them. Ford wasn’t surprised. “But you can’t.” he nodded. “I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Fiddleford relaxed. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’d rather you get yourself together, Fiddleford. Go home and take a shower. And for goodness sake, call your wife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Fiddleford </span>
  <span>chuckled, a pained twist to his lip. “Yeah. I… I suppose I should.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they spoke, the steady rumble grew louder. Now, it was impossible to ignore. To the left, a branch of snow shook to the ground, startling Fiddleford to his feet. “What’s-” the floor rolled, and Fiddleford stumbled.  For a moment, his fall slowed, and he was in the air longer than he should have been. Then, as if nothing odd had happened at all, Fiddleford dropped onto his butt, splattering mud. They both froze. “What was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Ford knew exactly what it was. “Already? It’s hardly been eight hours!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  
  <span>“What’s going on!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  
  <span>“No time. Get out of here!” Ford zoomed upward, and then paused. Just one last thing. “... Thank you, Fidds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t wait to hear his response. Ford raced through the forest, whipping past branches, through trees. He made it back to the clearing in seconds, just as the ground shook again. There would be a few like this, and then a good rest for several hours. Bill was powering up the machine. Time was even more limited than he’d imagined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flying through the clearing, Ford darted toward the unicorn’s home, through the gate. Inside, he was met with an… unsurprisingly violent sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan had the unicorn by the neck, a hand on the horn, and the other trying to get hold of his scissors. “Come on, ya dumb-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  
  <span>Stan’s head jerked up. “Ey, Sixer! What, you take a nap?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The unicorn let out a shrill neigh. “STANLEY PINES, YOU ARE UNWORTHY!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said cap it, lady! Just one lock!” They struggled, and all at once, Stanley fell to the ground, a triumphant fist of multi-colored hair cut neatly in his hand. “Ha!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to go now! The gravitational anomalies have already begun!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean the-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not now! We’ve got to run!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s mouth clicked shut. With wide eyes, he scrambled to his feet and patted the dazed unicorn on the head. “Sorry, missy. Tryin’ to save the world and all, you understand.” With that, Stan located the puppet. “Lead the way, sixer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He jogged out of the clearing, following after Ford. They raced through the forest, Stan panting just behind. “W-what’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill has located a power source quicker than I imagined. He has already loaded the-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like a battery?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sort of. There should be several instances, growing in length and intensity until the portal fully powers up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan cursed. They (or rather, Stan) ran all the way back to the car, where he spent a good ten seconds heaving, hacking, and cussing, before jumping in and spraying mud as he jerked the car into reverse, and spun it toward the cabin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford kept up easily. This was it. There wasn’t any more hesitation. He needed to kill Bill </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, before he could get any further. Ford was… terrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that was alright. He was allowed to be terrified, as long as he kept moving forward. Wallowing hadn’t worked, neither did hiding. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only problem in this plan was… Stanley. Stanley, and Ford's unspoken promise to do everything in his power not to die. He couldn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>afford</span>
  </em>
  <span> to think about Stan's feelings. Not now, with the world at stake, no matter what Fiddleford said. But... it </span>
  <span>kept coming back to this, didn't it?  He'd given up on a whole lot because he couldn't afford to think about Stanley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan flipped off the car just out of sight of the cabin, throwing it into a stop behind some bushes. His hands were shaking, Ford noted, but Stan took a deep breath, eyes in the direction of the cabin, and the whole of him settled, quiet, still, ready.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can do this,” Stan said, looking for the puppet. “Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford wasn’t a very good liar. But the way Stan asked, it suddenly made it feel like maybe he didn’t need to be. Stan would believe him, and that was all that mattered. In fact, it was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing that mattered. “Yes, you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford was granted a lopsided grin. It faltered back and forth unsteadily, but stayed all the same. “Ford?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...  Once we kick this guy’s butt, we gotta” he grimaced, “talk</span>
  <em>
    <span>.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford swallowed. “I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan shifted, grabbing the door, unicorn hair in hand. “nerd, you would.” He took in a deep breath, exhaled, and then nodded. “Well. Yep. Alright. I guess I’m doing this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Stanley opened the car door.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dbevsivjedhej here it comesss. Go boys, go! Off to the races!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. In which everyone reminisces about that one scene from the shining, you know the one with the dude and the ax and the door?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It! Has! Been! A! While!<br/>I am so sorry, dear reader. You see, I am ~very afraid~ of finishing things for some reason. but I swore I would do it and I worked too dang hard to decide I can't write all of the sudden. also I had covid. but we're good. it's all good. I'm on a bit of an adrenaline high from this chapter. gosh, I am so excited for you guys to read this!!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bill would know they were coming, probably, but he also would be in the basement. They had seconds to move, no more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First, we barricade the basement door,” said the disembodied puppet floating near Stan’s head. He was suddenly struck with the absurdity of this. At another time, he would have laughed. As it was, his heart was hammering far too hard for him to do anything but nod. He patted his pockets, his jacket for his gun and the handful of unicorn hair, his pants for his knife, and the breast pocket of his coat for the brass knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s steps made a moist, crunching sound on the muddy road. He came upon the cabin suddenly, crossing over the ridge as if a curtain had lifted on a familiar play: the sloping roof weighed by melting snow, darkened in spots by the trees, and before the cabin, which sat homely and calm with the windows drawn shut as they’d left them, their footprints from the last few days went from the front lot to the door, a set or two trailing off into the forest. He walked to the porch, to the door. Close to the walls, the air changed, devoid of the wind. A clock ticked inside the house. He pressed the tips of his fingers against the door, and it eased open without resistance, revealing the dark maw within. Stan reached into his pocket and gently pulled out the smooth weight of his gun. He clicked the safety off. If worse came to worse, he’d shoot Bill in the feet and hope it slowed him down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When no wild creature lept from the ceiling to send him sprawling back into the mud, Stan walked inside. He was breathing too loud, and doing it through his nose did not help. It was dark behind the shut windows. I’ve broken into a house many times before, he thought, this is only one of the times. He hesitated at the edge of the rug, testing that the boards beneath it would not creak. He knew there were boxes and tables around him, though he could see only blackness and less black things. The white kitchen table and the scattered white papers and the towers of boxes, the blinking lights from Ford’s computers. He moved silently, walking slowly and stiffly, stretching his eyes, skirting boxes he did not really see. A sudden thought that Bill was merely toying with him brought a start of panic. He was waiting until Stan thought he’d succeeded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, he passed through the front corridor, down the hall, and into the room where the bookcase stood open with no problems. This room was probably meant to be a study, but as with everything else, appeared overrun. The open bookcase, a secret door to a staircase descending to an elevator, was only one of several bookcases along the walls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s down there,” Ford said, in the barest of whispers. Stan didn’t ask how he knew for certain. Careful, he pushed against the bookcase. The hinges creaked, and Stan resiliently withdrew his hand, waited, and tried again. There wasn’t any way around the sound. He just needed to do it quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchen clock ticked louder and he realized he’d been hearing it grow for several seconds. The hand clicked to the hour, 4 o’clock, and sank shrilly, putting every last one of Stan’s nerves on edge. Yet still, there was no movement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until the floor gave a cautious rumble that they really began to have a problem. A pencil rolled across the desk, dropping a little too slowly to the floor. Stan wobbled, the floor not nearly as steady, and above him, Ford hissed a long string of curses. The ground shook again, harder, and the clock fell off the wall, smacking against the counter and sending the hands bouncing into the shadows. It was shockingly loud in the quiet. Then the gears in the elevator- he could see the metal door just catching the light down the gullet- began to grind. A soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>ding </span>
  </em>
  <span>rang. Someone was rising to the second floor. The gears kept grinding and terror jumped through Stanley. Being quiet was no longer a concern. He shoved the bookcase shut and scrambled for the desk. Grunting, he shoved it against the bookcase, and then threw half a dozen boxes, a stool, and a chair at it. He looked around the room. There had to be something else. The other bookcases! Stan managed to drop one against the desk before the elevator chimed again and the gears slowed their knocking until there was nothing but dead silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan fell still, mesmerized. The house had a smell it didn’t before, like wet metal.  A sharp tickling sensation plucked at his ears, and suddenly he was sure Bill Cipher stood on just the other side of the bookcase, looking right through it into somewhere deep inside Stanley and holding his breath just as Stan did. Stupid! Run!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill </span>
  <em>
    <span>slammed</span>
  </em>
  <span> against the bookshelf, shaking the books. Ford grabbed his shoulder. “Quick! Go, go! Outside!” Stan didn’t need to be told twice. He fled the room, darting around the junk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there anything else we need for the spell?” he shouted. He leaped out the front door and skidded on the wet porch. Inside the house, Bill, with Ford’s voice, cackled, muted. The sound echoed in his ears until the screen snapped shut behind him. He fumbled for the unicorn hair. Suppose he couldn’t get the hair laid out in time? Suppose Bill got out first?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything else is already in place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have time to glue-” Another </span>
  <em>
    <span>slam</span>
  </em>
  <span> from in the house, this time accompanied by creaking wood, startled Stan down the porch steps too quickly. “What if I just circle it around the cabin?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fine! Do it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was difficult to lay out hair, much more than say, salt, like the demons in movies, but he made good time, and Ford kept an eye on the hair to make sure it was all connected. Stan was just about finished when the banging in the house ceased. Stan straightened, blanching. “That can’t be good.” While he sweated, feeling the heat in the cotton of his coat rise over his face, Stan laid the last few strands. The silence stretched on. And on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he adjusted the connection of one line of hair, and there was a rush of air that knocked him back.  A shimmering blue light, like a bubble, extended over the house, meeting at the peak in a perfect sphere. It was beautiful, but Stan couldn’t take the time to appreciate it. It disappeared almost instantly. Relief rushed through him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The relief didn’t last. “And that’s how we do it! On to step two!” His smile wavered as he turned, looking. Where did the puppet go? “Ford?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” said Stanford Pines, in the flesh. The puppet dangled in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world tore into a roar. Stan was on the ground, kicking up at the creature. By a miracle, his foot connected with Bill’s chest, and Bill returned the favor, hitting Stan in the nose hard enough to blind him with tears. Neither of them went down. He fumbled for a weapon, any weapon, and managed to get the pocket knife, still sheathed, unfortunately, in his fist. He punched again, stronger now with the metal in his grasp, shoving Bill off into the mud and ice. Bill was almost up again, but Stan was quicker, and he got him, hard, right in the jaw, and felt his knuckles split, but Bill went down with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>slap</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the mud. It was nice that Bill didn’t seem aware of how the human body worked, much less how to defend his body when he fought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan gasped, wavering on his feet. He wiped his nose. Would Bill get up? A long second passed, and then another. Bill stayed crumpled on the ground. Ford was very much going to need the hospital once this was over. “We’ve got to stop doing this.” Stan’s hand pulsed, sending shots of pain with every heartbeat and he stretched it, trembling. Holding something in your hand while punching was good for hurting </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>involved, especially when you didn’t have the protection metal knuckles provided. He fumbled for them in his breast pocket, just in case, only to realize his fingers were already too swollen to fit them on. Muttering, Stan pocketed the knuckles once more and took his gun out. He really didn’t want to use it. Bill wasn’t giving him much of a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed to move before Bill woke up again. Gingerly, he bent and plucked the puppet out of Bill’s hand. He held it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, Ford. Coulda- coulda used a warning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The puppet was snatched up and fitted onto an invisible hand before the words were finished. “I did try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was your one job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He attacked me, Stanley!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He attacked me too! You’re not special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The puppet somehow managed to look just as frustrated as Stan imagined Ford must.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan didn’t waste any more time. He grabbed Ford’s body beneath his arms and drug him to the porch. He shouldn’t argue with Ford. He knew, in a grudging sort of way, that he felt awful about all of this. It was probably going to haunt him for the rest of whatever life they had left. It only took having Ford’s entire physical form taken away from him in order to get his head out of his… well, the point was, it wasn’t fun to kick a guy when he was down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t change the fact that this morning, Stan found himself underneath green fluorescents, staring down at the metal toilet in Ford’s bunker, wishing he had something tangible to destroy, to tear up and flush like he usually did when things went south. He couldn’t even get out of dodge yet. Somewhere along the line, drowning everything became a ritual. But now there was nothing to throw away- no way to put it all out of his mind. Bill’s yellow-slitted eyes were painted on the inside of Stan’s eyelids. He couldn’t tear up something like that. Course, there were a lot of memories Stan couldn’t get rid of. But flushing a driver's license, a social security card, the receipts and the phone numbers, the pieces of a life that he’d begun to build, did something to keep them at bay. Now even that system was screwed up. Ford didn’t mean for this to happen- Stan knew this. Ford could act sorry all he wanted, Stan knew where this ended, and he’d rather put himself there than end up locked in a bathroom anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dragged Ford’s body up the porch stairs and through the front door. “What do I do with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The closet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s gonna get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll escape from anywhere. He doesn’t have any pain reservations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stanley cursed. So it was a matter of speed. “You don’t have a</span>
  <em>
    <span> single cage</span>
  </em>
  <span> you could put him in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you keep a multi-bear in the same place you sleep? I live here! I kept all my large specimens in the bunker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This made sense, but Stan kicked himself. Why didn't they think to bring a cage along with them? Muttering, Stan tied Ford’s hands and feet with the vacuum cord in the closet. He then shut and locked the closet. “That’ll at least delay him.” Maybe they’d get lucky and Bill would sleep through the whole operation. Ford sighed. “There is no way he’s going to stay asleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have to keep your eyes on him, then!” He deliberated for a moment and then cursed. “No. This is stupid. He’ll sneak up on us this way.” And so, out of the closet, Ford came. Stan cut the vacuum cord from the vacuum and continued to drag Ford. He left a trail of the shiny floor in his wake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the ‘study’, Bill had somehow carved a man-sized hole through the junk in front of the door. Stan ducked inside, down the stairs. Ford’s boots </span>
  <em>
    <span>bump, bump, bump</span>
  </em>
  <span>ed down each step. The puppet trailed behind them. “Are those </span>
  <span>bite marks</span>
  <span>?” Ford whispered, more to himself than to Stan. Stan didn’t look to check.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which floor, wiseguy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The basement was wilder than Stan imagined. Sure, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> there was a trans-universal portal in here, but for some reason, he’d thought it would be smaller than this. The basement was less of a basement and more of a cave converted into a lab and there was an energy in the air, static electricity that made the hair on his arms rise. He turned on the lights with a lever, and then stood behind the windows that looked in on the portal, mouth open. The computers, several of them dotting the walls, were bright, displaying statistics, meters, and numbers so dizzying Stan didn’t bother trying to figure out what they measured. The screen in the center just above the window displayed a bright green countdown. They had plenty of time before the portal powered up, but just the presence of a countdown was enough to make him feel sick. He made quick work of Bill, tying him to the desk chair in the corner, well in view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is… quite the operation,” Stan said, straightening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s simple to work, honestly," Ford mused, “We really streamlined it toward the end. Even you could do it.” Ford was, as ever, oblivious to any offense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Terrific.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The puppet couldn’t really emote, but Stan could hear the pride in Ford’s voice, a barely veiled giddiness. “Isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not tryin’ ta turn it on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford sighed, and the puppet darted ahead, through the open door into the larger space beyond where the portal stood, a ring of metal twice as tall as Stan. Blue light spilled between the cracks in its plates, but on the inside of the ring, everything seemed normal to him. He could see the rock walls behind it. The closer Stan got, the sharper the air felt. It was the fuzzy feeling when you hover your fingers over a television screen. It crawled across his skin and Stan shivered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford’s voice bounced around Stan’s head. Stan was supposed to be listening. He hurried toward the portal, to a panel on the side where the puppet hovered and pried it open with a screwdriver. The next few minutes were as hard as ice. Stan’s heart was going to jump out of his throat and flop on the floor like some kind of salmon. He kept glancing back at Bill, slumped over his bonds in the corner of the room, expecting every time to find yellow eyes grinning back at him. If this day didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill him</span>
  </em>
  <span> already… The computer beeped and Stan almost launched the screwdriver into the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which wire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That one!” Ford hissed. He poked the puppet’s nose at a bundle of ten wires or so, on top of a tangle of other multi-colored wires. It was a huge spaghetti of a mess. “Uhh, that doesn’t- doesn’t narrow it down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right there! Cut that one!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna have to point better, Ford! Your finger is too big.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got to work with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying! I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously trying.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Gosh, he wished he could actually see Ford.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Stan snapped. “We got this far. You don’t get to give up yet. Once we’re done, you can go back to writing a dissertation or whatever and I’ll get one of those hot dogs from that famous place in California. What’s it called? It’s gonna be great.” He cut the wire. Nothing exploded. Nothing powered down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I have no idea what you’re-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pigs? Punks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, lift that lid. Yep, just like that. And you see the little vial there. Okay, careful, it’s hot.” Stan lifted a small vial from inside, and the lights flickered before returning to normal. Stan raised an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did that do it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No… We have to do that twelve times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan grunted and risked another glance at Bill. Bill was still slumped. Had he moved his head or was Stan imagining it? He scuttled to the other side of the portal and undid another panel, letting Ford’s instructions guide him. Only eleven more times. That was a lot, but that was at least something he could measure. They could do this! They were so close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to California?” Ford said after Stan finished with the second vial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan tried not to stiffen. He twiddled the screwdriver, half an eye on Bill. “I mean, I dunno. I might. Haven't been to L.A. in ages.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long second, the puppet said nothing. It was long enough that Stan looked up at him. “Ford?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm? Oh. Nothing.  I… It’s that corner there. The red wire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan wrenched open the lid, a dull ache in his stomach and a bad taste in his mouth. He’d been right, then. Of course, he was right. They were better off separated anyhow. Imagine living full time with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanford...</span>
  </em>
  <span> Snoozefest! Besides, assuming they were going to get out of here was wishful thinking. He settled into the disappointment and forced his hands to keep moving. There were worse things. It was fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Careful!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m being careful!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not! You almost crushed the-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, dang it Ford-” He rounded on Ford, ready for a fight, desperate for one, actually, but instead, he got a glimpse of Bill in the corner. His head was up, his legs drawn beneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan took a step back instinctively. His hand flew to his belt and he drew the gun without even thinking about it. The portal was between them. His finger rested on the trigger</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes steady on the gun, Bill tugged at the vacuum chord. “I have to give it to ya, Sixer, this is by far… the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span> plan you have ever come up with!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the one tied up in the corner,” Stan spat. “So let’s not get too cocky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tied up?” Bill blinked innocently, and on cue, the vacuum cord slipped to the floor. Bill got to his feet. Ford’s shirt was stained red from his broken fingers. His skin was a horrible grey, and his hair stuck up stiff. The glass in the left frame of his glasses had shattered in a web of white that obscured most of the eye. Face falling slack, Bill’s hands tightened into fists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan swallowed. “Don’t move.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” Bill opened his arms wide. “Go ahead, I’m curious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan needed to play this carefully. One wrong move and this entire thing would go sideways. He licked his dry lips. “If your host dies, you have nowhere to go.  You’re stuck in his body. There’s no one else in the house but me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t move.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill’s eye narrowed. “And something tells me you’re going to be a real stickler about the whole ‘possession’ thing, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds about right.” Where was Ford? What was he doing? Stan didn’t dare take his eyes off Bill. Distantly, he registered the computer beeping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here’s the thing. I think in Ford’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>condition</span>
  </em>
  <span>, any amount of being shot is likely to be lethal anyway.” He laughed. “He’s lost an incredible amount of blood!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... bastard,” Ford whispered above Stan’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! Thought you’d chime in, buddy? Love the puppet. Very becoming! Though, I preferred you without a mouth.” He mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. The computer beeped again, this time with a flash of red light, and Stan couldn't stop himself from glancing at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was all it took. The ground rumbled, and suddenly, Stan was spinning up into the air. Cursing, he grabbed the edge of the portal with one hand, the gun still in the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leveled the gun on Bill again, but Bill was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you, you pointy piece of- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Offh</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Bill’s feet landed solidly on his back, sending him flying through the empty portal, just in time too, because the thing flashed and sputtered and white light streamed from within the ring, growing brighter by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill kicked off the back wall and came flying at Stan. He tackled him, sent them spinning across the room, and slamming </span>
  <span>into the far wall hard enough to knock the breath out of Stan. He punched up at him, but it was really hard to get any kind of weight behind it when he was floating midair. “Get off of me!” Stan managed to hack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill laughed and wrestled him for the gun. “Come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Just give it up already!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> give up!” Stan shrieked, which, admittedly, was not his wittiest comeback. He scrambled for purchase on the wall. The light in the portal had begun to spin. Was it time to panic yet? He felt like he was lying beneath a rocket ship, looking up at the gleaming engine, the warming, grumbling machinery as it prepared to send his ashes into the earth’s mantle. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> time to panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world jolted and all at once, gravity resumed. Stan fell with a shout, slamming into his shoulder on the floor near the computers. The gun clattered out of his hand, bouncing away. He groaned, struggling up to his knees, only to settle into stone at the sight before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill stood on the bottom step of the portal, the cyclone of light casting him in a halo of white and blue so bright it pierced Stan’s eyes. Wind whipped his clothes. In one hand, he clutched a small sock puppet. In the other, he lifted Stan’s gun. Bill, with Ford’s face, was completely devoid of emotion. His grip tightened. “It was going to come to this one way or the other. And to think, he could have had </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Stan lifted his hands. “Hey, let’s just take a breath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t even bother to </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch </span>
  </em>
  <span>me take you away.” Bill shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter. Once you’re gone, Sixer won’t have anyone but </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Something passed through Bill, a fit of fierce anger so fleeting, Stan might have missed it. But he didn’t, and Stan stared at the demon in a new light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan scrambled up. “Bill, wait- wait, don’t-”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A roar rang in the cave, tearing through Stan’s ears. Suddenly, something shoved Stan back with a weight so heavy he couldn’t think to raise a hand in defense. He slammed against the corner of the doorway and slid into something hot. Darkness rushed to cover his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing he saw must have been a hallucination, because he swore, as the lights dimmed, Stan heard someone scream “No!” and there he was, himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanley</span>
  </em>
  <span>, rushing toward Bill. Wait, what?</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'll update in a few days, i swear. the next chapter is almost done. love you guys! happy new year! this one is going to be better, okay?<br/>Also! We've got some lovely art for this chapter!<br/>https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/sleepsentry</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. In which Ford makes a decision</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>see? told you it wouldn't be too long ;) ghkjdsfs this confrontation has been in my mind for ages. Im so excited to finally write it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So this was going to be the new normal. Ford didn’t know how on earth he was expected to go back to being alone after this. Logically, he knew, <em> of course, </em>Stan would leave after this was done. Ford had ruined… absolutely everything for Stanley. Why would he want to be anywhere near him? He respected that. He understood.</p>
<p>Just… for some reason, he hadn’t anticipated it. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Stanley wouldn’t want to stay. Was that just selfish of him? Again? Ford had to be okay with Stanley leaving, and this was a realization in itself. That was the right thing to do. What followed it was the sick sadness that he couldn’t do anything about it.</p>
<p>It was so much easier when he thought he hated Stanley. Ford couldn’t pinpoint when it switched over exactly, but sometime in between showing up at Stanley’s door and watching Stanley work dismantle the most complex machine on the planet, Ford stopped hating him. No, that wasn’t quite right. He stopped <em>trying </em>to hate Stanley. It was freaking easier to hate him. Ford felt like he’d been holding his breath for years, unable to surface. He did not have time to have this talk with himself.</p>
<p>As Stan held Bill at gunpoint, Ford floated above Stan, just behind, hands limp at his sides. Everything was falling apart. He could sense the flimsy plan tottering. They needed a solution, a new one. He’d never felt more useless in his entire life. He knew Stan couldn’t shoot him. He couldn’t expect that of him. Bill probably knew this as well. If only Ford had a body!</p>
<p>“... you have nowhere to go,” Stan was saying. “You’re stuck in his body. There’s no one else in the house but me...”</p>
<p>Something about Stan’s words struck Ford.</p>
<p><em> Are we </em> alone in the house? An idea rushed through him like a zing of electricity, and Ford almost gasped out loud. Instead, he swallowed thickly and forced himself to remain still. Bill gave him a smarmy smile. He thought he’d won. “...bastard.”</p>
<p>Ford had to time it just right.</p>
<p>The computer beeped more insistently. Perfect. The room shook,  all hell broke loose, and Ford dropped the puppet. It floated absently, and Ford shot up through the ceiling, through the rock, through level -1, into the kitchen. He zipped up the stairs, down the hall, and tumbled through the wooden door of the closet. The theory he’d been working on was laid out before him. “It just needs… eyes.”</p>
<p>On the floor sat Stanley 2.0. He hummed absently to himself, clearly content to stare at the ceiling, but at Ford’s words, he blinked and smiled at him.</p>
<p>Ford flew closer. “You can see me?”</p>
<p>Stan 2.0 grinned. “Ghost brother!” Ford was getting the impression Stanley 2.0 was not the smartest paperweight. He didn’t have time to wonder <em> how </em> Stan could see him, though he figured it had something to do with the fact that he was made of paper and not… No! He didn’t have time for hypotheses! </p>
<p>“Stan, listen to me. I need to possess you. Can I do that?”</p>
<p>Stan shrugged. “I am a paper illusion with only a fleeting sense of existential dread. Plenty of room in the ol’-” Ford didn’t wait for him to finish. He flew forward.</p>
<p>
  <em> Please work. Please, please, please- </em>
</p>
<p>Ford realized he was screwing his eyes shut. At this realization, he blinked and scrambled to his <em> corporeal feet. </em> “YES! Oh, thank the stars...” He didn’t know what he would do if this hadn’t worked. He looked down at his hands, opened and closed them. They crinkled uncomfortably. It was horribly disconcerting to feel the paper that made up his fingers. It still looked just like skin. He shivered.</p>
<p>As Stan 2.0 said, there didn’t appear to be anyone actually home in here. He supposed that explained its contentment in the closet. It was a <em> moment </em> of Stanley’s consciousness, not the entire thing, which is why the photocopy machine had been a failure in the first place. But Ford was certainly grateful for it now. He didn’t dare waste a second more. Ford let out a <em> whoop </em>and raced out of the closet. </p>
<p>He was in the elevator when the gunshot rang out. If he had blood, it would have drained from his face. He stood in the center of the elevator, struck. <em> That isn’t part of the plan. </em>Admittedly, it was the mental plan he’d cobbled together moments ago and had not shared with anyone. It didn’t matter who shot who. Both options were bad. He did not remember the elevator door opening. He did not remember running across the floor.</p>
<p>Stanley was on the floor, slumped against the wall. He looked too small. Smoke rose lazily from his jacket. Ford’s hands shook as he pulled him away from the burning symbol on the edge of the desk, horrified to find that Stanley merely fell forward in his hands. <em> He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. </em>When Ford took his hands away from Stan, they were stained red.</p>
<p>
  <em> Oh god. </em>
</p>
<p>“Oh, god, no. No. Stanley! Lee, wake up!” His voice cracked, and Ford suddenly couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think or see or hear. There was nothing but a fuzzy, empty scream inside him like his chest had been torn open and swallowed him whole. But the nothingness lasted but a moment. He whirled around.</p>
<p>“YOU!”</p>
<p>He covered the distance to Bill in seconds, faster than Bill could react. A gunshot rang out, but if it hit Ford, he couldn’t feel it. He tackled him to the floor, and his hands were around Bill’s throat.</p>
<p>Bill choked and kicked Ford in the chest, enough to roll over and get Ford beneath him for a moment, but they were equally matched. Ford struggled for the gun. “I’LL KILL YOU!”</p>
<p>“I know!” Bill shouted. “I mean, you might as well!” He got a better grip and shoved his elbow into Ford’s gut, managing to race a few steps away. He got unsteadily to his feet and wiped the blood from his nose. The gun was in Ford’s hands. “You have nothing left now! With Stanley gone, you can go back to your goal! Saving the world, saving your research! You don’t <em> need </em> a body! I sure don’t! I’m sure we could fix you something up in the nightmare realm! You could-”</p>
<p>“What? You cannot be serious. I am not going to <em> work with you. </em> Ever! You need to die!”</p>
<p>Bill stumbled against the button standing in front of the portal. Then, slowly, he spread his arms. “Go ahead then, Sixer. Do it. Kill me. I know you want to.”</p>
<p>Ford leveled the gun. One-shot to the head. That’s all it would take. Bill was right. Without Stanley... he really had nothing, and Bill might not understand, but no amount of stupid <em> research </em>would make up for it.</p>
<p>Oh stars, he’d been such a fool.</p>
<p>“Well?” Bill’s eyes flashed, and suddenly his jaw tightened. “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?”</p>
<p>Ford swallowed and swiped his eyes. Something was… wrong. It nagged in the corner of his mind, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Stanley. <em> How do you kill an idea? </em> <em><br/></em></p>
<p>Moving jerkily like a rusted puppet, Ford lowered the gun. His body trembled. His voice was just above a whisper, barely audible in the wind-filled room. “You want me to do it.” His forehead creased, and by the second, Ford was more sure that he was right. “Why? What happens if I shoot my body?”</p>
<p>Bill blinked the eye Ford would see. Then he broke into a snarled curse in a language Ford didn’t know. “Gods! You are <em> so annoying! </em> Fordsie, Fordsie, always so smart! A Real Clever Boy! Do yourself a favor and <em> do what you’re told for once! </em>You want this more than anything! Infinite knowledge, Sixer! What happened to that?!”</p>
<p>Ford stared at his enemy, shocked into silence. He took a deep breath. “I… I can’t.” There was no reason to think that killing his body would kill Bill, and he had refused to consider the possibility that this was true. Bill didn’t need Ford alive. He’d made that clear. He just needed more time for the portal to open. And even if it <em> would </em> work… Ford risked a glance at Stan. <em> You should think about the promises you make. </em>  He lowered the gun to his side. He’d broken enough promises to Stan. If this was their last day, he wasn’t going to spend it breaking another.</p>
<p>Bill spat. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.” He launched himself at Ford, but before he could reach him, the floor shook again, and they both rose into the air. Ford pushed off the floor. Bill tumbled across the room, slammed into the wall, and bounced back toward the portal, which was whirling at an ungodly speed, sucking paper and rocks into its maw. It was reaching full power. Any second now, it might pull them in as well. How Bill managed to get it to work so fast was a mystery to him.</p>
<p>Ford pushed off the wall and grabbed Bill's shirt, pulling both of them further from the portal’s gravity. Bill fought in his grip like a rabid animal. “I <em> will have this world! </em> ” he screamed. “I burned the second dimension, and I am the king of nightmares! The third dimension is <em> mine </em>! I’ll start in this world and go on to the next and the next and the next! It’ll be a party! My party!”</p>
<p>“And then what?” Ford shouted. “Once it’s all gone, what are you going to do?”</p>
<p>Bill ripped himself away, gun in hand again. He brought it to his head, but Ford tackled him. They spun in circles until the gun was thrown into the air, out of reach. “That’s easy! ” Bill growled. ”I’ll bring it back to life and start destroying it all over again! It’s the cycle of the universe, Sixer. You just don’t get it because you’re puny and insignificant and <em> emotional! </em>”</p>
<p>Ford had a hand on the wall. He gasped for breath. The gun was too far away to grab, but Bill swam toward it. He was going to reach it before Ford. It just wasn’t physically possible to stop him.</p>
<p>So this was it, then. Ford let himself look down, one last time, at Stanley, at his brother, who was <em> here with him </em> , despite everything. Stanley, who… who was clinging for dear life to the elevator gate, legs kicking in the air, who was struggling to open the gate, who was bloody but <em> alive. </em></p>
<p>Ford gaped, “Stanley!”</p>
<p>Stanley’s head jerked up, he grinned at Ford, and the lock flew open. In spilled a gangly man with sandy hair. “Thank ya, kindly!” Fiddleford shouted. He jumped past Stan and anchored himself to the doorway. His eyes took in the scene, and he blinked, obviously confused. “Stanford?”</p>
<p>“It’s me!” Ford shrieked. “I’m in the paper copy!”</p>
<p>Fiddleford’s face cleared. “Catch!” Reaching into his coat, Fiddleford pulled out a gold and glass machine in the shape of a handgun. It tumbled into the air. Ford leaped, catching it easily. “You came back!”</p>
<p>Fiddleford managed a half-smile. “Ya can thank me later! Listen, I got to thinking!”</p>
<p>Behind him, Bill swiped the normal gun out of the air.</p>
<p>“You can’t keep a promise you can’t remember!”</p>
<p>Ford held the memory gun tight, suddenly terrified he’d drop it. He stared at his friend, mouth open as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. Was it really that simple? Could it possibly be that easy? </p>
<p>“You want to know how you kill an idea?” Fiddleford said, pointing at Bill.</p>
<p>Ford was already typing into the gun. He’d need to make sure he covered enough ground without destroying himself. It was better to play it safe. The wind roared in Ford’s ears, and as Bill rounded on Ford, weapon to his forehead, Ford lifted the memory gun. The light was nearly blinding, and his mouth tasted like metal. The trigger was so small a thing, yet it occurred to him that pulling it would probably be the most monumental action of his entire life.</p>
<p>“Not so fast!” Bill shouted. He pulled the trigger. Ford flinched.</p>
<p>… The gun clicked. Empty. Fate was on their side.</p>
<p> It was obvious the moment Bill realized when was about to happen. His eyes widened in sudden horror, and his hands flew up as if they could protect him. The words on the memory gun gleamed. <em> Anomalies. </em></p>
<p>“You forget about it,” Ford whispered.</p>
<p>This time, when someone pulled a trigger, a gun fired. A beam of light flew across the room, and the room erupted into white light. The portal roared at maximum capacity.</p>
<p>Then Ford was falling into the stone floor. His vision tunneled. The ground raced toward him, but when he landed, he felt nothing. Something pulled him more intensely than the portal ever had. It wasn’t a force, but rather an inevitability, like a bone slipping back into place, like the ever consistent tide, like gravity. It pulled him up, out of his borrowed body, through the air, and then down, down, down into darkness. A heat like dark water lapped at the edges of him until he lay at the bottom of a gentle ocean.</p>
<hr/>
<p>                                                              </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ART!!! also check out sealbatross's cool drawing for this chapter!<br/>https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/sealbatross/639448296241479680</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. In which sometimes the world is gentle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here we are :')</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dr. Stanford Pines moved to Gravity Falls to study whatever might catch his attention and for a long time, he did just that. He met another scientist while on a hike, and the two started up a friendship. Dr. Bill Cipher was studying near Gravity Falls, and he hoped for a partner to help him with a project that, coincidentally, was nearly exactly the sort of thing Ford wanted to study. Dr. Cipher had a way with words, and he was clearly a genius. He had equations for equations Ford hadn’t even read about. The man was going to do great things, and it was an <em> honor </em>that Dr. Cipher thought Ford could work with him. Ford was intrigued and excited and it didn’t take much to get him to agree to work with Cipher on the project. He invited him to move to Gravity Falls. It was best to build it there. There were fewer people, fewer regulations, and Ford had the room in the basement. But for personal reasons, Dr. Cipher would not be able to arrive for several months. Ford would need another assistant while he waited. Luckily, Ford was on good terms with his college roommate, Fiddleford McGucket. McGucket moved upstate, and they got to work on the machine, all while Ford consulted through telephone and letter with Dr. Cipher. It took far too long for Ford to tell Fiddleford that he was consulting with Dr. Cipher; a poor decision on Ford’s part. Fiddleford was already beginning to express concern about the scale of the project, and Ford’s deception only worsened Fiddleford’s unease.</p><p>When Cipher moved to Gravity Falls, Fiddleford became even more difficult to work with. He’d been uncomfortable with the project for months, and his unreasonable dislike for Dr. Cipher was clouding his reason. Or so Ford thought. It wasn’t until an unfortunate accident with the machine nearly killed Fiddleford that Ford began to question whether or not the machine was really going to do what Dr. Cipher promised it would. After an intense argument, Fiddleford quit. He’d rather forget all about the project than continue to work on it. Losing Fiddleford shocked Ford in a way probably nothing else would have- enough that Ford finally worked up the courage to confront Dr. Cipher. To his horror, Dr. Cipher revealed his true plan for the machine and promised that Ford would be his right-hand man in the new world they made.</p><p>“Once the dust and ash and radiation settles, oh and also the acid rain goes away- once they come crawling out of their little worm holes all scared and tiny and helpless, like a bunch of squirming little maggots, then we’ll take them into our arms and establish a new world. It’ll be wonderful, Pointdexter. You and I and the world.”</p><p>It went downhill from there. Several attempts on Ford’s part to stop Cipher only made Ford weaker and weaker. He managed to barricade him from the cabin, but a man can only stay on guard with a crossbow for so long. Ford needed help. He’d run out of food ages ago. He hadn’t slept in days. In desperation, he sent a postcard to his estranged twin brother- the only person left who might be willing to help instead of turning him in to the police. But the letter returned to the cabin. He didn’t have the correct address.</p><p>So, Stanford prepared for the only option he had left. He armed the house. He buried explosives around the perimeter and in the stairway down to the basement. He locked and barricaded and placed on video surveillance. His iris was the key to opening the door. The door wasn’t opening up without him. He nearly died when an explosive went off accidentally while he walked up the stairs. In the dead of night, he snuck away with a plane ticket in hand. It was a risky move, leaving the machine, but there weren’t any other options. Or rather, there weren’t any Ford was willing to take. Stanley would know what to do.</p><p>“Fractured skull, broken wrist, broken thumb, two broken ribs, fractured nose, a dislocated shoulder, numerous surface cuts on the torso, face, and arms. A concussion. Severe dehydration and inanition. But… we believe Stanford will pull through.”</p><p>The nurse looking down at Stanley had to be at least six-foot-seven. She held him with a gaze like stone, and Stanley suddenly seriously thought about whether he’d survive if she decided to body slam him into this flimsy hospital bed. Not that she <em> would </em>, but she had the sort of energy that made a person think about those sorts of things. “You said it was a hiking accident?”</p><p>Stan blinked. “Yep. Got stuck. In the forest.”</p><p>“Ah, hum.”</p><p>“We were uh- exploring this cave and there was an earthquake! It shook down a bunch of rocks and we got all stuck for days. Ma’am, no offense but I’d rather not talk about it. It was… too horrible.” He pulled what he hoped was a suitably traumatized face. It wasn’t too difficult.</p><p>The nurse said nothing for a long moment. Then she clicked her pen and wrote something on her clipboard. “And your burn? The gunshot wound? I suppose those were… the rocks.”</p><p>Stan leveled a glare. “Very fast rocks.” He couldn’t move very well. His knuckles were wrapped in bulky bandages and his chest and shoulder were wrapped in even more. They’d had the audacity to <em> take his clothes off </em> and put him in the skankiest freaking half shirt he’d ever seen. He swallowed dryly. At least he had pain medication.</p><p>“Can I see him or what?”</p><p>The nurse adjusted a nurse hat dwarfed by her immense form. For a long moment, Stan thought she might refuse him outright, but then something softened in her face. “You look very similar.”</p><p>“We’re twins.” Yeah, he could play that card.</p><p>She chewed her lip and then made another mark on her clipboard. She muttered something that Stan thought might be German.  “... Alright.”</p><p>A few minutes later, he was rolled down the hall in a wheelchair, past flashes of beige and blue, to a corner room with a window that looked out over the Gravity Falls forest. It was a sunny morning, warm and yellow. The light cast rectangles across the bumps of Ford’s still form beneath a white blanket. Someone left a little purple flower at the bedside table. The armchair next to the bed had obviously been slept in. The blanket slipped to the floor.</p><p>The nurse parked him next to the bed, which was fine by Stan. She patted him gently on the shoulder. “Your friend is just- ah, here he is now.”</p><p>Stan glanced at the door, and sure enough, Fiddleford poked his head in. He smiled when he saw Stan, and the nurse left as Fiddleford settled into the armchair. He’d taken a shower at some point, and he wore clean clothes, and he’d shaved. His eyes were clearer than Stan had ever seen, clever and calm despite obvious exhaustion. In silence, he handed Stan a bag of chips, and then, realizing Stan couldn’t open it because of his bandages, did so, and handed it back. Stan accepted the gift gratefully. The hospital food here was less than good.</p><p>For a long time, they sat quietly, eyes on Ford. Everything was so calm, so clean, so soft, it didn't feel real. How could a day like this exist so close to last week?</p><p>“I called my wife,” Fiddleford said softly.</p><p>“And?”</p><p>Fiddleford shrugged. “She agreed to let me see Tate.”</p><p>“That’s good! That’s a good sign!”</p><p>“I thought that too. I can’t ‘spect she’ll just let me waltz right back into her life, course.”</p><p>“Ah, give it some time. She’ll come around. You’re a nice guy when you’re not wacko.”</p><p>Fiddleford chuckled, and Stan got the impression he didn’t quite believe him. “I suppose you can only try.” Fiddleford perked up suddenly. “Oh!” He rummaged in his pockets. “I nearly forgot. The nurse gave me this. Thought you might want it.”</p><p>He held out a gleam of bronze, and Stan took it. He turned the bronze knuckle over in his hand. There was a sizable dent on the flat portion of the weapon, and it didn’t fit comfortably in the palm anymore, but he couldn’t be less concerned. “Is this what I think it is?”</p><p>“The doctor said it's probably the only reason you’re alive right now. The bullet still broke a rib, but it kept ya alive.” </p><p>Wasn’t that something? Here was his life, held in his hands. And he’d thought he was unlucky! Stan closed his fist around it. It was certainly quite the souvenir. He didn’t remember a lot after the whole getting-shot part of yesterday (or it could have been the day before. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep.). He remembered watching himself fight his brother and being so confused it forced him to wake up a little. His chest was <em> killing him </em>. He remembered someone hammering on the elevator door. He remembered crawling across the floor and floating. Everything else was a blur of pain and light and wind.</p><p>“You never said what he did,” Stan said. He needed to know.</p><p>“I told you. He used the memory gun.”</p><p>“No, not that. I know that. I mean, what did he erase?”</p><p>Fiddleford’s mouth clicked shut, and his gaze slid to Ford, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. The doctors had stitched up the cut on his lip and another on his cheek. He breathed easily. “Anomalies,” Fiddleford said. “It was a good choice, considering.”</p><p>Stan blanched. “That's a lot<em> , </em>Fidds!”</p><p>Fiddleford’s fingers twitched a little in his lap. For a second, it looked like he was in immense pain. “Yep.”</p><p>A horrible thought occurred to Stan. “And what if he starts to remember again, or he sees anomalies? Will that bring Bill back?”</p><p>Fiddleford shook his head. “I don’t think so. We remember Bill, but that doesn’t mean he lives in our head. He was an idea, but he was also an entity. Ford erased the entity. Memories of him aren’t going to bring him back. Or… that’s what I reckon. I’m not ‘zactly an expert.”</p><p>Stan would take it. “That’s something.” Stan looked over Ford, whose brow was creased in a frown even as he slept. “Are we talking about Textbook Definition ‘anomalies,’ because I think you could say twins are an anomaly? Heck, anything <em> surprising </em> is an anomaly! The lady gave me a thing of peanuts with one almond in it! <em> That’s an anomaly! </em>”</p><p>“I programmed it to key onto the user’s intention. But you have to concentrate.”</p><p>“I’m sure he was real concentrated while killing the demon while he floated in a paper body next to a spinning portal!” Cursing, Stan scrubbed his face with his hands and tried not to feel sick. It didn’t really work. This wasn’t a reason to yell at Fiddleford. Ford made his choice.</p><p>Fiddleford stood suddenly. “I need to walk.”</p><p>“Fidds, I didn’t mean-”</p><p>“No, it’s okay. Just. I’ll… be back.” Stan hesitated and then nodded. So, Fiddleford left, shutting the door softly behind him. He wasn’t certain Fiddleford blamed himself for this situation, but Stan guessed he did, in part at least. Stan would have to apologize later. Not now though. Now, Stan ground his palms into his eyes and wished he had more pain mediation.</p><p>The sound of the rustled sheets brought Stan’s racing mind to a stop. He looked up. Finally! Ford yawned hugely before wincing and blinking rather largely in Stan’s general direction. For a second, Ford’s face was completely blank, the face of any person who’s just woken to find people nearby. Stan’s stomach dropped. But then, Ford squinted, and Stan realized what was wrong. He scrambled for the bedside table and leaned closer, fumbling the mostly cracked glasses into Ford’s hands. Still, Ford said nothing. He carefully placed the glasses on his nose. His eyes darted to Stan, and he jerked as if he’d touched a live wire. He looked him up and down again before he grabbed Stan’s arm in obvious relief. “Stanley, oh thank god, you’re alive.”</p><p>“Sure, I’m alive.” Stan gripped his brother a little too tightly. “You think one bullet’s enough to take me down?”</p><p>Ford gave a wavery smile that very much said <em> yes. </em> Stan agreed with him, but he didn’t say that. There were more important things. “You’re you,” Stan said. Stan’s relief was so potent he could have bottled and sold it. Ford remembered him. That was good. That was the only really important thing (okay, not really, but also yes, really).</p><p>Ford frowned. “Yes?”</p><p>“Because of the memory gun? You erased anomalies? I was worried, uh, not <em> worried- </em>I just, we didn’t know what that would do to you and… Ford, you alright?”</p><p>Ford was going a little green. He struggled into more of an upright position, brow furrowed. “Memory gun?” He blinked. “Yes! Fiddleford’s invention. I remember it. You’re saying I used it? Why would I do that?”</p><p>Okay.</p><p>Okay, cool. This was expected. Obviously, he wasn’t going to remember everything.</p><p>“We were fighting Bill. He’d possessed you, and… it’s a long story, actually.”</p><p>“He did <em> what? </em>You mean Dr. Cipher?”</p><p>“Not sure about the <em> doctor </em>part, but, yes.”</p><p>“Bill Cipher… my research partner.”</p><p>Stan supposed that was technically true. “Fiddleford is your research partner. Or, was, anyway.”</p><p>“Yes, yes.” Ford waved a hand, only to startle and stare at it in obvious shock. He wiggled his fingers, turned his hand around, and then lifted the other hand which was bound up in a brace and cast. The fingers stuck out the top. “... You said I erased anomalies.”</p><p>Stan nodded.</p><p>“You’re seeing this too, yes?” Ford held his hand out to Stan. “It’s not- I’m on pain medication, aren’t I?”</p><p>It took half a second for it to click, and then Stan’s eyes widened. He hadn't even considered Ford’s fingers. “Oh! Yes. That’s normal. For you, uh, anyway.”</p><p>Ford flexed his hand, eyes still glued to his hands. “Six fully functional fingers. Fascinating.” That was not the way Ford <em> ever </em> described his fingers if he ever mentioned them at all. “Huh. Must be useful,” he muttered.</p><p>Stan didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He cleared his throat. “Ford?”</p><p>“Hmm? Oh, yes.” His gaze returned to Stan but he continued to tap each finger, one by one, against his thumb.</p><p>“Why don’t you tell me what you think happened?”</p><p>It took a good ten minutes, but Ford outlined a very strange version of the last few years. Or rather, a very normal version. It was the sort of thing Stan might have told the police if he’d been forced to say anything. It was completely believable. Nothing out of place, nothing impossible. It was a little… dramatic, but things like it <em> probably </em> happened.</p><p>“And the project you were working on- you mean the portal.”</p><p>“I mean the tokamak. A working containment chamber for nuclear fission. Though, I understand the confusion. It is portal shaped.”</p><p>“No, Ford.”</p><p>“Fine. It actually was a doomsday machine meant to destroy half of the earth in one go, but in my defense, I was unaware of that aspect.”</p><p>Ford was wrong, of course, but it did put the weight of the situation more heavily on Stan’s shoulders. The portal wasn’t a nuclear fission/doomsday machine, but it might as well have been. They’d been gambling with half of the world.</p><p>Stan felt like he needed to sit down, and he was already sitting down. Instead, he leaned into the wheelchair and let out a long exhale of curses.</p><p>“So,” Ford cocked his head at Stan, once he’d finished. “What really happened? Obviously, that wasn’t it.”</p><p>Stan didn’t understand how any of this worked. Why did Ford remember a memory gun but not a portal? Why did Ford go to Gravity Falls in the first place in the weird delusion world he’d built for himself? What the heck did kids tease him about if it wasn’t Ford's six fingers? Stan needed to process all of this. He needed to figure out his next move. “I think we should talk about that later.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because you’re already getting tired again, you nearly just died, and,” Stan grimaced, “I honestly don’t think you’ll believe me.” </p><p>Ford scowled, but obviously, he really was tired. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for him to relent. He settled deeper into the blankets, wincing as he rolled over. “If the nurse brings food,” he muttered, back to Stan, “tell her I hate grape flavored jello.”</p><p>“Tell her yourself.”</p><p>Ford snorted but didn’t reply. Stan began to relax. A soothing balm had settled over him. Ford was mostly intact. Stan was mostly intact. Even Fiddleford. Actually, Fiddleford was probably doing the best out of the three of them, which was a surprise.</p><p>Stan hesitated before plowing forward. “I’m sorry you had to do that, Ford.”</p><p>Ford stiffened. He curled into himself. “It was the only option. I promised I wouldn’t die.” <em> On you, </em> went unsaid. After a long moment of silence. Ford spoke through the blankets. “And, for what it’s worth... I’m glad you didn’t die either.”</p><p>A glowing bit of affection. Stan huffed. “I’m glad you didn’t die too, dumbus.”</p><p>Stan thought that would be that, but to his surprise, Ford rolled over to look at him. He didn’t quite meet his gaze and seemed to fight with himself for a second before relenting. He flopped flat on the bed. “I’ve been an asshole. I’m… sorry, Stanley.”</p><p>Stan’s mouth fell open, and he snapped it shut, at loss for words. Stan believed him. He wouldn’t have before. But things were different now. The realization had Stan reeling. “Wh- jeez, Ford-”</p><p>“You don’t have to look so smug.”</p><p>“I’m not!”</p><p>With a roll of his eyes, Ford settled into the blanket, back to him again.</p><p>Stan wasn’t ready to let him sleep quite yet, though. He didn’t get to just open this can of worms and roll over. He cracked a grin. “Well, uh, since we’re doing this, I shouldn'ta broke your science project.” </p><p>Ford relaxed slightly. There was a smile in his voice when he spoke. “That <em> was </em>an asshole move.”</p><p>“You’re insufferable. I don’t know why I bother.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Ford yawned. Maybe he <em> did </em>get to open the can of worms and go to sleep. Weird. A minute later, his breathing evened and the room fell into silence once more. This was the quiet, soft world Stan couldn’t believe he got to witness. Stan’s dust allergy was acting up again.</p><p>They were going to be okay.</p><p>A fire crackled in the recycle can in the front yard as the evening bruised a sky freckled with stars.  Neither brother could remember what exactly ought to go in the recycle anyhow. It was a quiet evening, chilly, but not bothersome. The sun finally finished melting the snow a few days prior, revealing a conglomeration of grass and mud in front of Ford’s cabin. Ford’s hand was still in a cast, but the other busily poked at the fire with a stick. He held three journals close to his chest. He'd dispersed several boxes of papers near his feet.</p><p>With a can of pit cola in hand, Stan stood on the porch. Ford could feel him just out of his line of vision, but he kept his gaze on the flickering orange in the trash can. He hadn’t planned on Stan seeing this, but he wouldn’t stop him. Ford made this decision, in one way or another, the moment he chose to erase Anomalies rather than shoot himself dead. Now he just had to go through with it.</p><p>Stan’s steps squished in the wet grass. He settled at Ford’s side. His black eye was now only a few traces of yellow on his cheekbone.</p><p>“I don’t get it,” Stan said, after a long moment.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I get erasing your memories to save the world. But this is your life’s work. You don’t have to do this.”</p><p>It was difficult to explain and it was embarrassing, to top it off. He’d never been good with words or emotions or all of that… stuff. “I nearly doomed the world over my work.” Once he started speaking, the words came easier. “Besides, I’ll get to discover everything again. Discovering is the best part anyway. I can make a new journal.” He cleared his throat. “Can’t exactly make a new world.” He managed to look up. Stan’s gaze was on him, a bittersweet look in his eyes. “Or a new brother, for that matter. I… I don’t need it.” </p><p>Ford had nightmares about bullets going through Stan now. He got to see Stan’s life drain from his eyes and the world crumble into an empty abyss of nothing and… well, he’d probably have to unpack all of it at some point, but he had time. They both did. That was the important part.</p><p>“Oh,” said Stanley, ever eloquent.</p><p>They watched the flames get higher. “Think that’s hot enough?”</p><p>“Fiddleford left a flamethrower in the kitchen if it’s not.”</p><p>“I can’t imagine it coming to that.” With a deep breath, Ford dropped the journals into the trash can all at once. The fire dampened, only to catch and roar to new heights. It devoured Ford’s research in seconds, curling the pages and sending sparks dancing over their heads.</p><p>"Heh. High six?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>Stan had his hand raised expectantly. "Uh, right." He wavered. "It's a thing we do. Like a high five, but high <em> six </em> cause of-of the fingers and, you know what? Never mind, it's stupid-"</p><p>"It's not stupid." Ford lifted his not-broken hand. "High... six?" Stan's face lit up, and he slapped his hand against Ford's.</p><p>"I admit, I am unsure of the point."</p><p>"And we've made it officially weird now."</p><p>They lapsed into silence. In the forest, crickets and frogs roared. The wind whistled in the trees. The stars shined bright. The world was gentle for now.</p><p>“You’ll stay here, won’t you?” Ford said. “With me.”</p><p>“Do you want me to?”</p><p>“Of course, I want you to!”</p><p>“Are you sure? Cause I’m a real awful roommate. Lots of smelly socks, can’t cook for the life of me, not to mention the snoring-” Ford shoved him, and Stan cackled. He didn’t reply for a long minute, but he was smiling, so Ford took that as a good thing. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “Course, I’ll stay.”</p><p>And he did.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And that's a wrap. Whew, :''') I'm honestly so proud of myself for finishing this. I never finish anything. Thank you so much to everyone who's read and commented. It's been so encouraging to hear from you guys. I'm probably going to go back and tidy things up eventually. I left this open for a potential sequel, but don't hold your breath. I might write some short stories. We'll see. Until next time.<br/>(Edit! Sealbatross has blown my mind once again. Check out their incredible art for this chapter! https://sealbatross.tumblr.com/post/644710916654596096/for-the-sacrifice-of-stanford-pines-chapter-16 )</p>
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